Why am I creeping up my own staircase? Brigitte asked herself. I don’t want to wake Wynn. I'm just being quiet.
She lifted her bare foot, slid it atop the next carpeted step.
Liar. You’re on the way to get him up for school. It shouldn’t matter. You’re sneaking up quietly so, what? So you can catch the imaginary friend, that’s what. You want to know if what he sees is real, not merely a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder, or worse.
The door to Wynn’s bedroom rose straight ahead at the top of the stairs. Sunlight beamed in past his curtains to flood across the floor. It glowed in the gap between the bottom of the door and the worn out carpet.
Just go take care of your son.
Her weight pressed down on the next step. The dry wood creaked. Behind his door, something or someone moved from the window. Brigitte recognized the slight shadow as from the feet of a person turning around. The darkness twisted and moved to the right beyond the door.
Every hair on Brigitte’s body stood up. Her jaw clamped tight. She came up on the balls of her feet in an instinctual fight or flight mode.