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remaining walls. We were done in under an hour.
    Then we started on my room. While I swept the floor, Mom and Grant painted the trim, then the walls. When I finished, I grabbed a roller and started on the empty wall next to the closet.
    “This color makes me feel like we should be blasting steel drums,” Grant said, wiping a hand across his forehead. A streak of blue paint smudged his cheek in the process.
    I stepped back to survey the whole room. It was brighter already. “That was the idea.”
    “I think it will look lovely when you get finished.” Mom swiped on one last line of paint along the baseboard and rose. Her eyes sparkled. “The curtains and things you picked up today will be great.”
    Stretching, I dropped my roller in the tray and moved to the window seat. “I’ll have to get a cushion for this.” I traced a fingertip over the wood, which I hadn’t painted yet. There were a few cracks that needed to be filled first. It was dark, and while a bit dingy at the moment, it would be perfect once we got a couple coats of white paint on it. My eyes strayed to the window, where the sun brushed the treetops. The view was relaxing. More than I thought it would be.
    As my gaze drifted over the tree line, I thought I caught the flash of a red coat between the trunks. I squinted, staring closer, but nothing was there.
    “Can we start moving our boxes of things up here?” Grant asked.
    Mom and I turned away from the window. She shook her head. “We really need to clean these floors one more time, then get your furniture and stuff in. If you get up early, we can probably do it tomorrow.”
    Grant groaned. “Come on, Mom. There’s plenty of time left.”
    “We have three more rooms to paint.” Mom smiled. “Since you’re both already dressed for the occasion, I can’t let the opportunity go to waste.”
     
    ***
     
    Three hours later, most of the second floor was painted, and Grant and I were draped across the top steps while Mom rummaged around in the kitchen, promising spaghetti and meatballs in under an hour.
    Grant scratched a chunk of paint off his arm.
    “The point of wearing old clothes is to get the paint on them rather than you.”
    “You should talk.”
    I looked down at the spatters of paint on my arms. “I’m better off than you.”
    He snorted. “I’m a boy. It’s expected, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone.”
    I didn’t comment on the sarcastic turn the last words held. Grant was doing a better job of hiding his feelings over the move and the divorce than I expected. We lapsed into silence, the scent of tomato sauce tickling my nose. Downstairs, Mom called our names.
    As Grant rose, the distinct creak of footsteps echoed above us. His eyes widened and he glanced down at me. “Please tell me you heard that.”
    I rose, dusted off the seat of my pants, and nodded. The staircase stretched up next to us, leading to the third floor. We stood, watching the shadows at the top for a brief moment. Nothing moved, despite three more distinct treads.
    “How about some dinner?” I asked.
    Grant raised an eyebrow and jerked a thumb upwards. “With what’s going on? Really?”
    “Can we do anything about it?”
    He shook his head.
    “Then let’s get some food. We’re hungry, which we can do something about.”
    I started down the stairs, ignoring the feeling of being watched. Grant didn’t follow. Turning back, he stood at the top of the stairs his eyes trained upward.
    “I’m going to look.”
    “Grant…”
    “No. You’re going to come with me. We’re going to check and make sure what we heard is real.”
    He started up the other stairs, and I rushed after him. If I said I didn’t want to look, I’d be lying. But the curiosity was buried under all the fear—both of what was in the house and of myself.
    “This isn’t a great idea.”
    Grant turned around, his face in shadow as we headed to the third floor. “But you’re here, aren’t you? You haven’t had an episode