Gemotions

The real estate agent, blathering on about "character" and "history," just wouldn't shut up. Sarah crossed her arms, the polished oak of the banister cold against her forearms. Honestly, who cared about the original millwork? The place was a fixer-upper, that much was obvious. A fixer-upper she was stuck with.

"And imagine," the agent chirped, gesturing vaguely towards the living room, "the stories these walls could tell!" Sarah rolled her eyes, a sharp, almost painful sensation behind her temples.

She’d just wanted a house, a place to park her car, a roof over her head. Now this… this was a "story." A cop, apparently, had met his end right here, in this very living room. A messy end, judging by the detective's report she’d reluctantly skimmed. Great. Just what she needed, the weight of some forgotten tragedy. Another thing to clean.