Gemotions

The engine was cold. He remembered parking it there last night, right where he always did. He checked the side mirrors; nothing. It was gone. A tremor ran through him, a cold wash of sweat blooming across his forehead. His gaze darted around, searching the familiar, innocuous landscape of his front yard as if it held a hidden threat.

He walked to the end of the driveway, squinting. No tire tracks, no marks of any kind. He glanced at the house across the street, at the perpetually bored woman watering her petunias. Did she see anything? He hesitated, then retreated back to his porch, suddenly feeling exposed. A chill wind seemed to snake around him, whispering secrets.

He went inside and locked the door, all the bolts, all the chains. He called the police, voice tight, breathless. He felt a need to explain everything, to preemptively justify every decision he'd made in the last few days. Each answer he gave to the officer on the phone felt like a confession.