passion that just so happened to result in a death. The former owner, who was also the
deceased, had been attacked by his ex-lover, irate with jealousy, and had been beaten over
the head with a marble urn.
“A marble urn?! What aw-stentatious taste he must have ha-yad,” Lorraine had remarked to her colleague when she first heard the story, pursing her lips judgmentally, her
southern accent thickening with disgust.
Because the crime had occurred within the last twelve months, Lorraine was obligated by law to disclose the information to any potential buyers. She felt more comfortable
discussing the typical requisite seller disclosures—structural or material defects such as
termites or mold—and was struggling with how to phrase this particular piece of colorful
property history in an attractive way.
Lorraine was painfully aware that statistically “psychologically impacted homes,”
as they were known in industry-lingo, stayed on the market at least 45% longer and sold
at significantly lower prices than homes that did not double as crime scenes. Up until now,
the property had had its share of interested buyers, curious and skeptical as to why the
asking price was so low in such an upscale neighborhood; however, each time Lorraine
had divulged the truth, the clients had reacted indignantly, giving her withering looks of
disgust or shock, as if she had been the murderess.
Feeling antsy, standing alone in the eerie, tangible silence of the vast living room,
Lorraine flicked her wrist impatiently until the face of her fake gold Rolex was facing upwards. 6:08. She sighed, casting her gaze around the spacious empty area. Lorraine nervously dug the aerosol can of Glade air freshener that she always carried in her enormous
purse and sprayed the room liberally. The “clean linen and lavender blossom” scent permeated the room with a sickeningly saccharine flavor. During the holiday season, Lorraine
had tried to spruce up the property with “apple cinnamon nutmeg” to no avail, and hoped
that as the season rotated into spring, the fresh floral smell would rejuvenate the aura of
the house. The particles danced in the light and drifted downwards, settling on the floor
and mantle.
The ostentatiousness had moved out of the house along with the old furniture
and knickknacks, leaving behind a charming and warm property. The finished hardwood
floors creaked under Lorraine’s heels as she hurriedly inspected the bare room. The exposed brick behind the fireplace gave off a homey vibe and made it easy to forget that a
man was killed not two feet away, perhaps even thrown against that very wall before the
urn brought down the final curtain.
Ding-dong. The doorbell penetrated the silence of the room and reverberated
throughout the house. Lorraine started, took a deep breath, and briskly walked to the
door, running her long red shellac nails through her hair in one final attempt to buoy her
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