Something Beautiful. Marilyn Tracy

out Lyle’s unheard comment. “Lyle says Steven isn’t real.”

      “What?” Elise and Jillian said in unison.

      Jillian couldn’t begin to understand this latest twist of her daughter’s mind.

      “Whoa…” Elise murmured. “This, I don’t like.”

      Allie cocked her head, listening, not to Elise, but to that invisible, inaudible voice, then said, inexplicably, “Lyle says, just whatever happens, don’t let Steven inside.”

      Allie turned to leave the room. For some reason, this chilled her mother more than her words had done; Allie was unconcerned by her comments. She didn’t appear to even know what she was talking about. This was wholly and utterly consistent with someone truly listening to another voice.

      But that was patently impossible.

      “Honey…” Jillian called after her, only to let her words trail off. Could Elise be right, and Allie did know or sense something about Steven that she herself refused to see? Or was there something else going on here, something related to Dave’s death, perhaps a general distrust of everyone?

      Jillian wanted to call her daughter back, but didn’t. She didn’t because she knew that merely summoning Allie back to the entry hall wasn’t what she truly needed from her little girl. What she wanted in her heart of hearts was Allie back…period. The way she used to be, filled with giggles and sunshine, light, airy steps dancing through life, the way she’d been for a moment when coming into the house, the way she’d been a year ago.

      She turned and met Elise’s concerned gaze. She was certain her own was equally troubled.

      Elise raised her hands as if in surrender and said, “I’m out of here. But I don’t feel good about it. There’s more going on around here than doesn’t meet the eye. And I gotta tell you, I don’t like it. Any of it.” She looked over Jillian’s shoulder, out to the darkening courtyard.

      Jillian turned to follow her friend’s scrutiny. Steven had apparently paused in the act of loading the piled leaves into a large black plastic bag. His profile was to the house, but something about his stilled hands, his tensed body, conveyed the impression he’d heard every word spoken by those inside. His face seemed even grimmer than usual, and his jaw like chiseled granite, his lips pulled into a tight grimace that could have been either pain or anger.

      Jillian couldn’t help it; she turned her eyes to that spot in the archway, a place some four feet above the ground, an empty pocket of air, a space where no one stood, but where something had spoken.