‘They questioned everyone who had been by the river that day,’ said Hedda. ‘All the picnickers, the dog walkers. It was hours too late by then, of course. But people remembered her; she was very striking, my mother.’
‘And?’ said Richard.
‘No one saw where she went. One moment she was there, the next gone.’ Hedda shrugged, resigned, no longer tormented.
‘Well, perhaps one thing. When the morning mist cleared, Dad went back to the river and waded to the far bank. He found footprints, in the mud. Right size.’
Richard raised his eyebrows.
‘The toes pointed away from the water.’
For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Erin Leary) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is only about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in.
And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.