Constance stood before the mirror in the steamy bathroom, one hand parting her hair, the other gently probing the bump on the back of her head. She’d finished her bath and stopped to check her injury one last time before going to bed. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen so hard. She inspected her probing fingers for blood, but they were clean. She still fumed inside about the whole ordeal.
After her fall, she’d stormed upstairs to the bathroom to confront Abigail. The girl must have come downstairs unnoticed, soaking wet from her bath. Why? Constance didn’t know, but there was no other logical explanation for the wet footprints on the floor and stairs. The evidence was damning, the prints started at the bathroom door and were the size of Abigail’s feet. As she’d expected, Abigail had denied everything.
However, one fact puzzled Constance. The prints only went one way, from the bathroom, down the stairs, and to the backdoor. They never tracked back to the bathroom.
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