Gemotions

He had been watching. That was the only explanation. Mrs. Gable stared through the blinds, her fingers clenched around the cool metal of the window latch. Mr. Peterson was leaning over the fence, pointing at the towering pine. She could almost hear his low rumble even from here.

Her breath hitched. She had to seem normal. She forced a shaky breath and opened the back door. The air smelled thick with the promise of rain.

“Afternoon, George,” she said, her voice sounding oddly high-pitched to her own ears. His eyes, usually crinkled at the corners, were unnaturally still. He was too close, his presence pressing in on her.