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

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.”

No one was a close friend to Mandy than I. For this reason, I was expected to provide the answers to many questions. They interrogated me right there in my living room. “How long have you known Mandy? How close were you and Mandy? What type of relationship did she have with her estranged husband or boyfriend? How well do you know either of them?
Who do you suspect as the killer?”