Gemotions

The detective, all business and clipped sentences, had just left. The house, usually filled with the comforting scent of freshly baked bread, now felt contaminated. The air tasted stale, metallic. She wandered through the rooms, touching the surfaces, the reality of what happened here pressing down on her.

Her usually steady hands shook as she ran her hand along the banister. She couldn’t shake the mental images, the whispers in the walls. Her throat tightened. She wanted to scream.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, taking a deep breath. She could still feel the coldness of the handle against her palm.