Gemotions

The card, a garish explosion of confetti and oversized balloons, lay in the metal maw of the mailbox. Amelia stared at it, the blood draining from her face. Whose birthday was it? Not hers. Not today. She scanned the neighborhood. Sunlight glinted off the chrome bumpers of Mrs. Gable’s pristine Cadillac. Probably hers. Amelia clenched her jaw, the muscles tight. She’d spent weeks crafting a perfect gift for Mrs. Gable’s granddaughter, the one who always seemed to get everything.

She ripped the card open, hoping for a clue. The inside was blank, save for a generic, mass-produced message. A wave of heat washed over her. She crumpled the card, then stopped. A tiny, almost imperceptible scent of vanilla clung to the cheap paper. That was it. She’d find the person who sent this anonymous offering, and she’d know.