The living room was white.
Flour covered the carpet, couch, coffee table, and television stand.
There were powdery handprints on the cushions and tiny footprints stretching into the hallway.
Oliver stood in the middle of the mess, sneezing.
Lily was laughing nervously.
Noah stood beside an empty bag of flour.
“Grandma,” he whispered, “we wanted to make Mommy a cake.”
“Where did you get all this flour?”
Noah pointed toward the kitchen.
“We found the big bag.”
I was about to ask why they’d poured it onto the floor when something near the back door caught my eye.
Large shoeprints.
Not children’s footprints.
They led from the back door, across the kitchen tiles, and into the hallway.
One print had a notch in the heel.
I knew those boots.
I knew who wore them.
And suddenly the flour didn’t seem funny anymore.
I knelt beside Noah.
“Sweetheart, did somebody come inside while Grandma was outside?”
