I swallowed, my throat suddenly parched. I didn’t have to rack my brain for which question to ask first. But now that I was about to get an answer, my stomach clenched at the thought that the next words out of his mouth could strip me of the small amount of hope that had bubbled up in my chest since finding out magic existed.
I took a breath, fortifying myself. “Can magic heal my brother?”
Mickey’s eyes widened. “Your brother?” Clearly, he hadn’t expected that to be my first question.
“Yeah. He’s been in a coma for a while now. Deena hasn’t said anything, but I’m pretty sure he’s not doing any better.”
Mickey paused a few seconds while my heart seemed to thud in my chest like it was in an echo chamber. “Well, if he’s already stabilized—”
“He is,” I said, my hopes climbing.
“And if he’d naturally heal by himself, it’s possible to speed up the process.”
I blew out a pent-up breath. That was something, but it still wasn’t the answer I’d hoped for.
“What if he’d naturally stay the same or get worse?”
“Well, that would take more power, and we don’t have much at the moment.”
“Why not?”
Mickey shook his head. “No, my turn, and I get two questions, seeing as I already answered two of yours.”
I gave him my best death glare.
“Hey, it’s one for one. Fair is fair.”
Except that this was Caleb we were talking about, and I wanted answers now. But rules were rules, so… “Fine.”
Mickey’s silence stretched out long enough for me to regret my first question. I should have asked him about his conversation with Bridgette first. For all I knew, Mickey was taking his time to figure out how he was going to make Bridgette and him look better.
“What happened the day they hospitalized you and your brother?”
My eyes snapped over to his. Of all the questions I thought he might ask me, that wasn’t one of them.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” The words left my lips without me even thinking them.
Mickey shook his head. “Question for a question.”
My fists bunched in my lap. “I can’t answer that question.”
Mickey eyed me before saying, “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need the information. It’s important.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “Question for a question.”
I swallowed. When he’d said that phrase before, it had seemed like a taunt. Now, it seemed like something more. Something with weight.
“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “But my next question is gonna make you pay for this one.”
Mickey didn’t crack a smile. He didn’t even nod. He only sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, waiting.
“It started with my dad’s convertible. He used to be this fancy-shmancy lawyer, and he bought Beauty when things were still going good. Long story short, I borrowed her every once in a while.”
“He never found out?”
“Oh yeah he did, but we had an unspoken agreement. Whenever he got really awful—”
“Really awful?”
I squirmed in my seat. “Like if he hurt me more than he meant to.”
“That happen a lot?”
“Often enough,” I said as I looked out the window, not wanting to see Mickey’s response. “Anyway, I don’t think he ever meant to seriously hurt me. Not when he was sober, anyway. So when he did, I’d heal up for a few days and take Beauty out for a spin when I felt better. He never said a thing even though he loved that car more than anybody. Near the end, he’d sold or pawned just about everything else for bills and booze except that car.”
Mickey shifted.
“Well, um,” I said, clearing my throat. “The day when everything happened was a little different. I came home and found my dad plastered on the couch. Not a big deal until I realized he’d been drinking an eighteen-year-old bottle of scotch. We didn’t have money lying around to buy anything like that. When I got to my room and my graduation stash was missing…well, I put two and two together and kind of freaked out.”
“Graduation stash?”
“Yeah, the money I was gonna use to get an apartment or something once I turned eighteen. He wouldn’t cosign on a bank account, so I had to cash my checks when I got them. Well, Dad found it—no idea how—and used it for—” I waved my hand in the air. “Whatever else.”
“I should have waited—cooled off a little, but...” I shrugged. “Anyway, I took his car out for a spin while he was still drunk.” I shook my head at my own stupidity. “But when I stopped to grab something at the grocery store, some jerk backed into me.” I shrugged again. There was more to the story, but that was the gist of what happened.
“By the time I got home, I thought Dad would have sobered up enough by then to realize how much of a—well, at least have realized her insurance would cover the damage. But he’d been drinking the whole time. When he saw his car, he lost it and ran at me, screaming.”
My fingers shook. I folded them, pressing them down into my thighs.
Mickey didn’t say anything. He only sat in his seat, waiting, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
“I don’t remember much except for the hitting. When I tried to run, I tripped, and then Caleb…” My voice cracked. “Caleb,” I tried again. “He drove up just then. He ran out and jumped on Dad.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what he was thinking. Dad’s twice his size.”
“I remember lying there on the driveway in front of the car…” I kept talking even as I flashed back to the gritty asphalt, my arm twisted behind my back while my cheek laid against the pebbled ground, shredded from the fall I took from the second blow to my face.
I was too tired to move from my dad’s kicks in the stomach. One in the face. On movies, people got back up after punches. Well, I didn’t.
All I could do was stare as Dad punched Caleb over and
