Chapter 8 - THE STAIRCASEI returned to the house five days later with Megan, my attorney, and a victim advocate.
Not permanently.
Just to collect clothing.
The staircase looked offensive in its normality.
Oak treads.
White risers.
Brass railing brackets.
One small framed family photograph at the landing.
No blood.
No broken wood.
I stood at the bottom.
My body began shaking.
Megan touched my arm.
I moved away.
“Sorry.”
“No. Just—ask.”
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
She held my elbow.
The top step had a narrow runner.
A wool strip fitted down the center.
Investigators photographed it.
One corner near the upper landing was slightly lifted.
Had it caused my fall?
Maybe.
Installer said the runner had loosened before.
Daniel had complained about it once.
So had I.
No sabotage miracle.
Then investigators found something else.
The staircase handrail had been recently wiped with furniture polish.
So had the nearby console table.
Evelyn said she cleaned that morning.
Could polished wood contribute to slipping if I grabbed it?
Potentially.
Did she polish it to make me fall?
No evidence.
May you like
Again:
Not solved.
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