I was pretty sure I’d heard her continue past the back-door landing. What was it Lucas had said? Considering what we were dealing with, “quite sure” wasn’t good enough. So “pretty sure” really didn’t cut it. I should have been more careful. She could have headed back up while I was ogling a box of frozen baked goods.

“No!”

I jumped, nearly stumbling into the open doorway and blowing my cover.

“I didn’t ask—No! This is mine!”

It was the Nix, that same un-Jaime-like snarl I’d heard upstairs. The voice came from the enclosed stairway. Who was she talking to? Not Lucas or Savannah, that was for sure—not in that tone.

A hackle-raising growl reverberated down the stairs. Then a thud-thud-thud as the Nix marched, heavy-footed, back up. The screen door squealed open. I hurried from my hiding place to the foot of the stairs.

“Jaime? Is that you?”

She kept walking, letting the door swing shut behind her. I galloped up the stairs and out to the yard. By the time I got there, she was at the edge of the driveway. Lucas stopped mid-throw, and the ball rolled from his hand. Savannah dove to catch it, chortling at his fumble. Then she saw us and stopped.

“Jaime!” I called, jogging after her.

She ignored me.

“What’s with her?” Savannah whispered.

Lucas shushed her and said something under his breath, distracting her attention from Jaime. I caught up to the Nix, and touched her arm, but she flung me off and growled something about needing some air. When I turned, Lucas caught my eye and motioned for me to leave her be.

“Time to order that pizza, I believe,” he said as he scooped up the ball. “What does everyone feel like? I think Hawaiian might be a nice change. We haven’t had that in a while.”

“Duh,” Savannah said, snatching the ball from him. “We don’t have it because I hate pineapple.”

“Really?” he said. “I do believe I saw you put pineapple on your banana split last night.”

“That’s because banana splits are sweet, and pineapple is sweet. Pizza is not sweet. You don’t mix sweet stuff and nonsweet stuff. It’s gross.”

“But you always put plum sauce on chicken strips, and that is definitely mixing sweets and nonsweets, so your logic, it would appear, is faulty, and—”

“Oh, stop being a goof.” She whipped the ball at him.

“I’ll order the pizza and get what I like.”

She marched off into the house, hair flipping behind her, thoughts of Jaime long gone.

“Nice save,” I said when she’d left. “You’re really good with her.”