Here is the opening:
It was dark at the edge of the lawn, the trees crowding together, their limbs thick with waxy green leaves that brushed his face like a whisper. Perhaps that was why he chose it, this little house on a patch of land, dark even for the night. But in a small town like Ben Lomond, there were lots of dark places. Maybe it was the color of the house, light pink with turquoise trim, a house meant to draw attention, though certainly not his.
He’d been drifting through small towns like this one all over the country. Little places with a handful of residents, a Dairy Queen, and plastic flowers planted in old tires out in front of weathered, frame houses.
He’d been looking for just the right place, just the right night. Finally, he found it there in Ben Lomond, in a pink house with turquoise trim. He was standing beneath an enormous oak tree, listening to the crickets and other creatures of the night buzz and chirp. It occurred to him he was the same as the insects, the frogs, the rooting mammals, a creature of instinct and no more. It was instinct that brought him to the edge of this lonely scrap of property. He could feel her, smell her. He hungered for her. Then he saw her through the small kitchen window, a young woman preparing her morning coffee, her curly dark hair pulled back in a messy pony-tail as she started her day before the sun was up. He closed his eyes in anticipation. Just another moment under the tree with his chirping cousins egging him on, then he would satisfy the need that had been pushing him forward for a lifetime. His first step toward the house made no sound, not even the softest rustle of dried leaves. She would not hear him even as he reached for a fistful of her hair.