Once she was examined by a doctor and cleared to leave, A cop took her to the police station for questioning.
They grilled her, but got nowhere. As they sent questions toward her, she said nothing. All she could think of were the dumb paintings in the lobby. Cars standing on their edges, how stupid.
Almost as stupid as the paintings her father stared at while her mother entertained strange men in the bedroom, under the wooden chandelier.
Stealing a knife from one of her mother’s lovers, she murdered her father in his sleep. Who would blame an innocent little girl?
To be continued…
This is the third part of the Wooden Rose, and my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Be sure to check out the rest of the series at this link: WOODEN ROSE
To read more stories based on the photo prompt, follow the little froggy