The realtor’s words echoed, replaying in Amelia’s mind like a warped record. “Charming place, plenty of history… a former… *incident* happened here, years ago.” Amelia swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. She gripped the cold porcelain of the kitchen sink, knuckles white. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but all she could focus on was the unsettling emptiness of the room, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic thumping of her own heart. The pleasant aroma of the apple pie she’d been about to bake turned sour in her stomach.
She bolted from the kitchen, her feet pounding against the hardwood floors. She needed air, needed to be anywhere but here. She scrambled to the front door, yanking it open and stumbling onto the porch, gasping for breath. The birdsong that had charmed her just hours before now grated on her nerves. She hugged herself, a futile attempt to quell the sudden chill that had gripped her.
Her gaze darted from the pristine white picket fence to the manicured lawn. The image of the ‘incident’ – whatever that entailed – swam before her eyes, blurring the idyllic picture she’d created in her mind. This was supposed to be her haven, her safe space. Now, it felt… tainted.