Gemotions

The silence in the room was thick with unspoken resentment. I picked up the newspaper, pretending to read, but the headlines swam before my eyes. Across the fence, the gardener was meticulously trimming the rose bushes in Mrs. Hawthorne's garden. Rose bushes that were probably worth more than my entire savings.

She had always played the part of the struggling widow, relying on the kindness of her neighbors. I remembered the charity drive she'd participated in last year, her face contorted with faux sympathy for the less fortunate.

A sharp, almost animalistic noise escaped my throat. I slammed the paper down on the table, the force of it jarring the pictures on the wall.