Risk and Rebel

11: A BATTLE OF WILLS

When I headed to Mickey's house, I knew both of her parents would already be at work. The real question of the hour was whether Mickey herself would be there.

I wasn't taking any chances with ringing the doorbell, either. That would give her too much of a choice to pretend she wasn't at home. No, I was using my emergency key, and I was going to see for myself. After I'd unlocked the door and stepped inside, I figured I would rather be safe than sorry. "Mick?" I called out as I shut the door behind me. "We need to talk. If you're home, now would be a really great time for you to come out ... and not, you know, escape through another window," I said loudly.

I was surprised to hear footsteps padding down the stairs, and soon enough she was within my line of sight. Her short hair was tousled, and her eyes narrowed as she studied me for a moment from the top of the stairs. "You know," she eventually said, "you're really bad at listening to instructions."

My brow furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I told you not to follow me," she said calmly as she descended the stairs. "Last night, remember?" She arched a brow, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and regarding me with nearly palpable impatience.

"Mickey, you shouldn't even have been sneaking out! How is that my fault?" I demanded, considerably disgruntled by her behavior.

She rolled her eyes. "My name isn't Mickey. How many times do we have to go through this?"

"At this point, until one of us dies," I deadpanned. "Seriously, where did you even go last night? Where is there to go at two in the freaking morning?"

I was surprised that she didn't come back with a sharp retort immediately. Instead she stared at me long and hard, until she eventually let out a huff of a breath and ruffled her own bangs. At least that was a gesture I recognized. She was frustrated.

It had just been a really long time since that frustration had been directed at me.

"I was attending to things," Mickey said calmly. "It was hardly my first time leaving this house. Honestly, do you underestimate me that much?"

"Clearly I shouldn't have," I retorted, my irritation still building. It shouldn't have surprised me that this wasn't her first time leaving the house since the crash, and deep down, I knew that. I just hadn't wanted to think about it, much less accept it. But her bluntness was forcing me to do both of those things. "You didn't answer my question."

She continued to make infuriatingly steady eye contact with me. "I'm surprised you even noticed."

"Mickey," I sighed loudly.

"Rebel," she retorted sharply.

We glared at each other for a long moment, the thoughts crossing through both of our minds not needing to be voiced. They mimicked each other, of that I had no doubt: That's not my name.

I broke the silence first. "Where did you go?"

"Out," she said stubbornly.

A growl of frustration escaped my lips, and I twisted away from her quickly before my temper could get the best of me. I began to pace, hands clenching and unclenching as I did so. All the while she looked on, now leaning against the bannister of the stairs, a passive expression still on her face. "Why won't you tell me? Did you do something illegal?" I asked, doing my best to take measured breaths.

"Not that it would be the first time, but no," she said unabatingly, "I didn't do anything illegal."

That didn't make me feel any better. "What about the other times?"

"What about the other times?" she echoed challengingly.

I shot her a sharp look. "Did you do anything illegal then?"

She merely rolled her eyes. "I plead the fifth," she said, sarcasm still heavy in her tone.

My jaw clenched, and my pacing sped up. "You're impossible."

"Now you're catching on," she drawled. "Look, Rebel, I don't have all day, here. As much as I appreciate your concern for me — no matter how painfully diluted it is — I have things to put in order and figure out. Something has gone wrong, and given you're of about as much help to me as a civilian," she gave me a pointed, though less spiteful, look, "you need to go."

I stopped my pacing to stare at her, and though I could feel the glare forming on my face, I didn't fight it. "I talked to the police today."

"Oh, goodie," she muttered.

"Just listen for a few seconds, okay?" I asked, running a hand through my hair and trying my best to keep my breathing steady. "They said that the truck that crashed into us was found a mile away from the scene."

She merely stared at me, this time remaining silent, waiting for me to continue.

I took in a shaky breath. "They said ... the truck was stolen a few minutes before the crash. They said it was wiped down. No prints, no DNA ... they're searching video feeds now, to see if they can find any faces ..."

Mickey hummed in what I assumed was contemplation, before shrugging one shoulder up and down. "All right."

I stared at her blankly. "All right? That's all you've got?"

I could tell she was suppressing an eye roll this time. "Yeah, that's all I've got. Look, the car crash is low on my list of priorities right now. There are bigger fish to fry."

"So you don't care?" I asked incredulously. "Somebody put you in a coma, nearly killed you, and you don't care?"

"I didn't say I don't care," she corrected me coolly. "I said I have other things to care about first. Besides, if the information I've come across lately is correct, then the people — or person, whatever — who caused the crash aren't a threat. But there are other threats, and that is what I'm dealing with first. Okay?" She stared up at me with those fiery eyes, sharp as superheated metal.

I was at a loss for words. I didn't know how to handle this. Mickey thinking she was a story character was one thing, but this ... this was full-on devotion. I was concerned, I was speechless—

I was thinking it might be time to pay a visit to Dr. Larimore. He had said that she might eventually regain her memory, but the longer this went on . . . the more I worried this wasn't any form of amnesia at all. It was like a complete personality replacement. Like some weird brain transplant. I stared at Mickey for a long moment, before my lips thinned out. "Fine," I said in a cold voice. "You want to run around like a hooligan, be my guest. But I swear, Mickey, if you get arrested, or—"

"I won't," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Just take the day off, Rebel. And please, for the sake of both of our safety, please stay out of it." She paused, and for the first moment since she'd woken up, I saw a flicker of concern in her eyes. "At least until I figure more out."

Uncertain of what else to say, I merely nodded. I watched as she left the house, no goodbye, and then found myself staring at her front door for nearly five minutes, with even more questions than when I'd hung up with the police.

Maybe it would also be helpful to ask Dr. Larimore about other cases of dissociative amnesia, just to compare.