Gemotions

A tremor ran through Liam’s hands as he held the article. The accusations against Alistair Finch, the author he'd idolized since childhood, were laid bare. Finch, accused of stealing entire sections of his beloved stories. Liam felt a hollowness bloom in his stomach, a sensation as unsettling as the storm clouds gathering outside his window.

He re-read the evidence. The prose, the plot points, the specific turns of phrase, all echoing his own, unpublished stories. Liam knew, with a certainty that was both devastating and strange, that the accusations were true. He felt a deep ache within him.

He pushed back his chair, went to the kitchen, and started making a pot of tea, the clinking of the kettle echoing in the sudden quiet of his apartment. He made two mugs, pouring a generous amount of honey into both. Then, he picked up the phone.

“Hello, Detective Reynolds, this is Liam. I think I have something you should see, for that Finch case. And I have some tea made, if you want some.”