Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeams slicing through the living room windows. The letter from the police department sat on the kitchen counter, its crisp white a stark contrast to the mismatched paint samples I'd been trying out. Murder. The word was there, bold and unyielding. The previous owner, a Mrs. Eleanor Ainsworth, had been found dead in this very house.

I poured myself another cup of coffee. The police report detailed the grim discovery. A locked room, a single gunshot, no signs of forced entry. I ran a hand through my hair, finding a stubborn knot near my nape. The police's conclusion: suicide.

"Well," I murmured to the empty kitchen, "that's a load of… something." I knew enough about crime scenes from reading mystery novels to understand how it all worked. Something about the whole situation didn't add up. The air seemed heavy, charged with a strange, stagnant energy.