Gemotions

The champagne flowed, a glistening river of celebration down her throat. Sarah flung her arms wide, a burst of laughter bubbling up as she twirled in the newly renovated kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the expansive window, catching the dust motes and making them dance. She’d finally done it: the perfect house, the perfect life.

The realtor’s call, a week later, was a rude intrusion. "There was...an incident," she remembered him saying, his voice hesitant. "Back in the forties." Incident? She’d asked, already picturing a burst pipe or some minor historical mishap.

That night, alone, she pulled the original blueprints from the attic. A tiny, almost insignificant note scrawled in the margin of the drawing for the master bedroom caught her eye: "Crime Scene – 1948." She blinked, then laughed, a loud, startled sound that echoed through the otherwise silent house. The history! This was amazing. She practically bounced as she re-read the note.