Gemotions

Agnes choked on a rogue crumb of bran muffin, her hand flying to her chest. The real estate agent, a woman named Brenda with a smile that could curdle milk, was still chattering about the "historic charm" of the exposed brick in the kitchen. Agnes felt her face flush, heat prickling at the edges of her scalp. The “charm” now felt like a shroud. She pictured the detective’s file, the crime scene photos that Brenda, bless her oblivious heart, had conveniently omitted from the sales packet. A chill snaked down her spine, a contrast to the sudden warmth. She couldn’t bring herself to meet Brenda’s gaze.

She’d spent months lovingly restoring this house, painting the trim, sanding the floors, envisioning family dinners in the very dining room where... Agnes abruptly excused herself, muttering something about needing air. She escaped to the overgrown garden, the scent of lavender suddenly cloying.