Gemotions

A mischievous grin stretched across Michael’s face as he ran his fingers over the freshly installed kitchen island. He'd christened it “The Party Peninsula.” He’d even written a ridiculous poem about it, which he'd been reciting to the inanimate objects, complete with dramatic pauses. The island, gleaming under the bright kitchen lights, felt like the perfect stage for a culinary show. A sudden ping on his phone pulled him from his performance. It was a local news alert. "Former residence of notorious gangster, now up for sale."

His brows lifted. Hmm, interesting. He'd never bothered to look into the home's past, too busy with visions of dinner parties and boisterous laughter. He grabbed his keys and hopped in the car. The news article had the address, and what was the harm in a quick drive-by?

He couldn't resist. He rang the doorbell. "I'm the new owner," he announced to the startled woman who answered the door. "Can I ask some questions? Just curious." His eyes sparkled with the thrill of investigation.