“I will always love you,mia passerotta,” he said. “No matter what. Never forget it.”
FIFTEEN
Jack
Princess memorabilia was surprisingly terrifying. That was my conclusion after five hours of Belle and Elsaet al. drilling a hole through my shoulder-blades. Why were there so many princess posters on the wall? And did their eyes have to be so huge and sparkling and judgmental?
Focus.
I had begun the evening sorting through email and messages on my tablet. The media had found my email address, and my inbox showed hundreds of new messages.
No, I did not want to appear on The Today Show.
No, I did not want to send CNN photos of my unique clothing choices.
No, I did not want to grant Candy White an exclusive interview.
No, I did not want to share lottery earnings with a Nigerian prince.
I finally just told Siri to select everything and delete it all.
From there, I watched three rounds of news channel pundits and then moved on to action films. The pounding energy of the movies helped me drag my finger into corporeality as I watched.
Push. Pain. Bounce.
Push, Pain. Bounce.
A sudden shuffling noise sounded to the right of me.
My head snapped around.
Chiara stood in the doorway to the sitting room, eyes staring straight at me.
I recoiled.
It was her psycho stare. The one where her irises bled to black and she moved with wooden animation.
Mmmmm. I shot a glance back at the screen I was watching.Men in Black. An old-school action flick according to Chiara. But right now . . . she kinda reminded me of Edgar, the man possessed by an alien in the movie.
Chiara moved farther into the room, her eyes never leaving my face.
“Lightning. The only answer,” she said in Italian, voice low and hoarse.
All right. I could play along with this.
“How is lightning the answer?” I asked.
She angled her head, a curious bird inspecting dinner perhaps. That same something flickered in my peripheral vision. I swung my head toward it but saw nothing.
“The lightning. Find the power,” Chiara continued.
Well. That was certainly . . . odd.
“End the lightning.” Her forthright gaze was decidedly unnerving.
She moved farther into the room. I glanced at my tablet screen, suddenly realizing I should record Chiara’s sleepwalking for her. It might help us find some answers.
To that end, I pushed my finger into corporeality, nudging the tablet to the side, intent on moving Chiara into sight of the camera. But I never got a chance to start the video recording.
