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 some time 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 closer 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?”
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