I puckered my brow. I closed my eyes and tilted my head. Nothing. I opened my eyes and stared unblinking until Pooh divided into a kaleidoscope of bears.
Not an iota of anything.
Not a stray thought, not an odd vision, not a fluttering emotion.
Nothing.
Just the sound of ocean waves lapping and gulls calling. The hum of people walking along the lane outside.
And a growing sense of my own ridiculousness.
I threw the Winnie-the-Pooh plush across the room.
“I got nothing. I’m telling you, Jack. I don’t have a GUT.”
Jack frowned. “Perhaps your GUT just works differently.”
“Or, more likely, I don’t have any sort of Second Sight abilities, and you’re grasping at straws here.”
“Something is going on.”
“I don’t disagree, but me having a GUT isn’t it.”
“I will allow that to pass for now, but I’m still not convinced.” Jack’s look said he wouldn’t be letting this go. “So assuming the scars are not actually tied to your family’s abilities, then there is another force at work here. Perhaps I am a factor, though again, without me present to see the scars, it’s impossible to test. I may notcausethe scars, but they have to be connected to me somehow.”
“Because of the weird finger-flickering?”
“Yes, and the fact that I alone can see them. But the cause itself could be something entirely outside and merely stretching to interact with us.”
“But . . . like what? What kind of cause?”
“Let’s take your sleepwalking, for example.”
“Me sleepwalking is the cause?”
“Inadvertently, of course. To be extremely honest, you appear possessed when you sleepwalk. And you speak of power and lightning.”
I swallowed. Jack had a point. I hated the direction my thoughts drifted. I had some truly frightening suspicions.
“You said a couple days ago that your father committed suicide via lightning.” He paused, blue eyes skewering me with their intensity.
I knew what he was going to say. Mentally, I willed him silent.
But though his gaze was filled with compassion and his voice hung with concern, Jack said it anyway:
“I think it’s time we talked about your father’s death, Chiara.”
Ugh.
I sank back on the couch, biting my lip.
“This is what I’m talking about.” I jabbed a finger at Jack. “This was how I know I don’t have a GUT. If I did, I could stop people from putting me on the spot like this.”
A sympathetic smile tugged at his lips. “I know you don’t like talking about it, Chiara, but we both think it might be related. Talking about it could help us in many ways.”
My dream the night before of Babbo and me in Amalfi had been potent, bringing back so many memories. Happy memories. Why was it that one horrific memory made you bury all the good ones right along with it?
As if he read my mind, Jack said, “Tell me a memory of your father. A positive one.”
