Eventually, I sank onto the couch with my phone in my lap, running through every neighbor, every parent from her school, and every man I had ever met named Tom.
I found nothing.
It had to be her imagination.
I found nothing.
Then at 1:13 a.m. I heard something. The softest sound came from somewhere down the hall. A faint tap, like a single knuckle barely grazing glass. Once. Then silence.
I sat completely frozen, telling myself it was a branch. The house settling. Or anything at all other than what every instinct I had was screaming at me.
By the time I forced myself up and walked down that hall, Ellie’s room was quiet and the hallway was empty. But her curtain was moving.
There was no wind. Not a breath of it.
Her curtain was moving.
I stood in her doorway watching that curtain drift, and I made a decision.
The next morning, I bought a camera.
I set it up on her bookshelf between Ellie’s stuffed giraffe and a stack of board books, small enough that a five-year-old who names her blankets would not give it a second look. I angled it directly at the window.
I did not tell Ellie. I told myself it was just for peace of mind. That I would watch an empty window for two nights and talk myself down.
The next morning, I bought a camera.
That night I went to bed at 10:05 with my phone on the pillow, app open, brightness turned all the way down.
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