Gemotions

The antique desk sat in the corner of the guest room, a relic of her husband, Arthur's, grandfather. Clara, feeling every inch of her age lately, usually avoided it. The varnish gleamed, reflecting the harsh fluorescent light of the room, making her wince. Today, though, she was determined to organize. She needed a project, something to occupy her mind, which had lately been filled with too much quiet.

Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the drawer handle. She tugged. It was locked. She hadn't known it locked. A wave of heat flushed her cheeks. Arthur never locked anything. Was he expecting someone? Someone she didn't know?

She rummaged in the junk drawer, found a paperclip, and fiddled with the lock. The click echoed in the silence. Inside, nestled amongst old photos and yellowed letters, was a bank statement. A bank she didn't recognize. The balance, the number of zeros, made her stomach clench.