Gemotions

Agnes squinted, peering through the gap in her blinds. Mr. Henderson, with his perpetually rumpled clothes and the dented sedan, was loading what looked like a solid gold sculpture into a black limousine. Her jaw dropped. She'd known him for fifteen years, shared pumpkin bread, and listened to his complaints about the leaky faucet. Now this?

Her hands, usually steady, began to tremble as she reached for her phone. Should she call Brenda, her gossip-loving best friend? Or was she imagining things? The limousine's tinted windows obscured everything, but the glint of the sculpture was unmistakable.

The sudden urge to reread her own bank statements, even though she knew they were perfectly ordinary, washed over her. She sat down abruptly, the blinds still half-open, the image of Mr. Henderson, transformed, burned into her mind.