Gemotions

The realtor, a smirking weasel named Brad, had the gall to say it was "character." *Character!* Clara slammed the front door, the force of it rattling the already questionable windows. How dare he try to gloss over the fact that someone had *died* in her living room? The police report, delivered with a casual air by a young officer, had mentioned a "domestic dispute." *Domestic dispute!* More like a goddamn murder, if she was reading the grim details correctly. Clara marched back to the kitchen, kicking a rogue dust bunny across the floor. This was supposed to be her sanctuary, her fresh start. Now, she felt like she was living in a haunted house – a house of horrors with a fresh coat of paint.