Gemotions

I walked through the house, the old wooden floorboards groaning beneath my feet. I'd read the old newspapers, seen the crime scene photos. The details, brutal and specific, were etched into my mind. I knew the layout, the positions of the bodies. The previous homeowner had been a banker, and his wife, a socialite. Double homicide, ruled as a robbery gone wrong.

I kept walking, repeating to myself that it was just a house. Just wood and plaster and brick. But the smell, a faint, metallic tang, lingered in the air. I pressed my palm against the wall in the dining room, the very room where the wife was found. The plaster felt cold, even though the sun was shining.

The shadows seemed deeper than they should be, and the silence was deafening. How could anyone live here?