Gemotions

The late afternoon light slanted across the living room, catching dust motes dancing in the air. Sarah paced, the smooth wood of the floor cool beneath her bare feet. A nagging feeling gnawed at her, a persistent itch she couldn't scratch. The book lay open on the coffee table, a paperback with her name, "Sarah," boldly printed on the cover. A biography? No, a novel, according to the back. A novel that, according to the suspiciously detailed description, was *about* her.

She had always known Mark was a writer, but this felt different. He'd been strangely secretive lately, disappearing into his office for hours, claiming "research." She picked up the book, her fingers tracing the image of a woman on the cover—a woman who looked eerily like her.

"Mark?" she called, her voice echoing in the quiet house. A tremor ran through her, a prickling sensation on her skin.