Gemotions

The clinking of silverware grated on Ben’s nerves. Across the patio, Mrs. Gable, a woman of seemingly boundless generosity and a penchant for floral dresses, was setting out a silver tea service. He'd agreed to this godforsaken "neighborhood get-together" mostly to get close to her. He watched her every movement, searching for a clue, a hint, anything. She moved with such deliberation, a slow dance of preparation that infuriated him. He had questions, important ones, and every second felt like a punishment.

He drummed his fingers on the patio table. The scent of lavender from the garden was supposed to be relaxing, but it just made him more agitated. He knew she had money. The whispers about inherited fortune had been swirling around the local golf course for years.

He tried to keep his voice even, but a tremor crept in when he asked, "So, Mrs. Gable, tell me again about your latest trip to Monaco?" She smiled, and his nails dug into his palms.