Gemotions

He’d almost choked on his coffee when the detective, a tired-looking woman with a perpetually weary expression, had shown him the old crime scene photos. Mark slammed the file shut, the flimsy cardboard crinkling under his grip. This house. His house. The detective, sensing his reluctance to believe the information, simply handed him a business card. “Call if you have any questions,” she said flatly.

Now, he stared at the freshly painted walls of the kitchen, their pristine white mocking him. He’d spent weeks stripping away the previous owners’ awful wallpaper, eager to make the place his own. How could he enjoy a single meal in this space now?

He slammed the coffee cup down on the counter, the ceramic clinking loudly. The previous owners, a sweet-looking couple who’d gushed about the "charming atmosphere," had kept this little secret to themselves. The bastards.