Not a Blueprint: It's the Shoe Prints That Matter

In any case, we both put the scene behind us. I revealed this incident to Mandy, but it would be the last time we’d reminisce about the past.
A tragedy ended the relationship with my dear Mandy. It happened early
one morning. As the sun rose, we were awoken by someone at the door:
Knock! Knock! Knock! I got up, grabbed my robe, quickly moved toward the
door, and peered through the peephole. There stood two distinguished, well dressed men, one African American and the other Caucasian. Judging from
their appearances, these men could only bring bad news. Once I opened the
door, I felt a sadness that hovered in the air.
The detectives wanted to make sure I was seated before telling me why
they came. Sitting on the couch I wondered, What could they possibly want
with me? It didn’t take long to find out.
The African-American man stated, “We have some bad news. Your  friend, Mandy, was murdered.”
My hands shook as I cried out, “Oh my God, no, no!”
It took a while for me to compose myself. I wasn’t able to speak, just to listen. 

 “It must have happened sometime before daybreak since her kids were sleep. The little one, Cindy, found Mandy with the knife still in her throat.”“Oh my god!” I howled. “Where is Cindy now?”

He responded, “She’s with relatives. Will you be okay if we continue?”

I told him, “Yeah, go ahead.”
“She had over twenty stab wounds. We believe she knew her killer since there was no forced entry.”
I interjected and said, “Mandy always slept with a knife under her pillow. 

He responded, “Well, that must be the one. . . .”