Gemotions

The detective, a man whose tie looked perpetually rumpled, had a way of speaking that grated on Mark’s nerves. "We just need to ask a few questions, sir. Routine, you understand." He’d sat at Mark’s meticulously polished dining room table, a water ring already forming under his lukewarm coffee. "The previous occupant…Mr. Henderson. He, ah, passed away here."

A knot formed in Mark's stomach. He’d envisioned dinner parties, book clubs, a space filled with warmth and laughter. Now, the thought of someone…dying…at his table was revolting. He clenched his jaw, the skin of his face taut. He tried to focus on the detective's words, but all he could see was Henderson's ghost, forever staining his happy home.

He crossed his arms, the action a conscious attempt to contain himself. "And what precisely, did Mr. Henderson do?" Mark asked, his voice flat. He was usually such a welcoming host, but something about this situation made him want to shut the detective out.