The moon's bright glowing light spills through the window, casting trembling shadows across the den's paneled walls. Millie stands frozen in fear; her breathing is quick and shallow, every muscle rigid as fragments from her past continue to flicker through her mind like an old movie.
"Oh please don't let it be happening again. Please not again," she sobs, her words cracking with every syllable. Tears continue to spill down her streaked face, each emblematic of her unraveling equanimity.
Memories of the past few days flash through her mind. She first recalls the unexplained blood on her shirt after returning from her early morning drive through town and the way her mind is a complete blank from the time she slid behind the wheel until the time she pulled into her drive.
The three small blackouts come to mind. First, she wakes up to find she's slumped sideways in the chair. Her neck is twisted, hours missing. A few days later, she wakes up in a strange location again—this time she's shivering on the frigid garage floor, feeling the coldness through her clothes, another blackout, hours she can't account for. Her mind was vacant of any recollection of how she got there.
She then remembers the mud-crusted pair of her shoes, sneakers she hasn't worn in years, and how the officer claims their tread pattern matched the prints stamped across the muddied floor. "Not similar, but identical," he said, which frightened Millie more.
Millie shivers as another memory surfaces. She then recalls the interchange of guilty glares as the officer explains the bullets from Steven's gun match what was found at several crime scenes.
"What if the police are right?" Millie gasps at the thought; her ivory-toned face pales more. The objects she'd gathered from the counter slip out of her trembling hands and crash to the floor. The staggering scent of pickle juice wafts through the air as her aunt's hurtful words replay in her mind—ridicule she can't escape. You've been acting like a homicidal manic, and your uncle and I are in fear of our lives.
"Wouldn't I have blood on my clothes if it was me?" she whispers, desperately holding on to the final, frail piece of hope." Millie recalls the crime scene photos in her mind—all the blood, the gore, and the horror of it all. An icy sensation works its way up her back, causing her to shiver again. I'd be ensanguined, she tries convincing herself, but her doubt keeps working its way back in.
Millie then recalls her theory of how someone nearly identical to her is setting a trap, methodically arranging pieces to a twisted puzzle that could possibly end her life. Millie recalls what her psychiatrist had said about her diagnosis: how dissociative identity disorder can be managed but never cured. A horrid thought suddenly comes to mind. What if that someone is me?
She's contemplating the idea when her phone rings. Fishing it out of her pocket, she glances at the caller ID to see it's Jake.
"What's up?" She asks, trying to hide the fear in her voice.
"You called me."
"I did? Oh, that's right. I did." A nervous laugh slips from her lips. She peeks through the window. Her heart quickens its pace when she sees the police presence thickening by the minute. With a heavy sigh, she lets the curtain fall back in place. "You wouldn't mind stopping by later, would you, Jake?"
Sensing something is wrong, Jake anxiously shifts his weight. "Why, what's going on?"
"I just need someone to talk to; that is all." Her voice wavers with every word.
Hearing the nervous tension in her voice, he snatches his keys from the table and says, "I'm on my way."
"Thanks, Jake, you're the best."
Millie has two suitcases ready to go by the door when Jake arrives. Millie briefly explains her plan. "I was thinking I could hide in the trunk until we get somewhere safe," she finishes.
America's Most Wanted theme song blares in his head as fugitive mug shots flash through his mind. "I'm not so sure about this, Millie. I mean, helping you with the mess is one thing, but now you're asking me to take you across the state lines."
"I'm not a fugitive, Jake. Millie says in a huff. A sudden noise causes her to jump. She glances out the window to find cruisers lined up and down the block. Not yet anyway, she thinks. She'd already decided when this nightmare began that if her options were jail or running, she'd run.
Jake asked his friend about the case on his way home, hoping to get a little info and a little clarity on what was going on.
"I can't discuss an ongoing investigation, but I will tell you this: the detectives must have something if their main focus is on her."
"It's Mille we're talking about here, Brian."
"Time changes people, Jake, and sometimes it's not for the best."
"But Millie? The little girl who tried to save every stray she found."
All I'm saying is watch your back, bro."
He glances over to find her pacing frantically back and forth like a wild cat that's recently been caged. Her eyes are wild and unfocused, and her normally well-groomed hair is a matted mess. He then recalls seeing her in this state in the past, moments before her sudden outburst of rage.
He then remembers the time he stopped by Steven and Millie's house to find Steven with bruises on his face. He then remembers the lame excuses they gave. All the while, a collection of warnings replays in his head, first her aunt's stern concern, then Steven, and finally his pal's advice.
Millie stops in front of him, a look of horror on her face. Clutching her hands tightly, with a plea of desperation in her eyes, Millie says, "Please, Jake, please, get me out of here before I go insane."
Ignoring his inner voice screaming in his head, he grabs her stuff and says, "Let's go."
Situating her comfortably in the trunk as best he can, Jake tries to control his trembling hands as he lowers the lid. He nervously backs out of the garage. The officers glare as he drives past. Their piercing eyes cut through him deeper than a razor blade, which terrifies him more. "They know. They know." He takes a breath of courage to steady his nerves as he continues on.
Jake's about to tell Millie it's safe to come out when something catches his eye. He checks the rearview to find a cruiser a few cars behind him. His breathing quickens, and his heart pounds rapidly against his chest wall as he recalls the sergeant's warning.
Jake then pictures himself behind the prison's cold steel bars. "I knew this was a bad idea," he thinks. With a firm grip on the steering wheel, he merges onto the highway. The cruiser follows.
"Is it safe? A faint voice asks from the back.
Jake looks into the mirror to find the cruiser is quickly closing the distance. "Not yet."
Red and blue lights erupt from behind him. "No. No. No. Jake yells, smacking the wheel. Panic surges through him as he veers towards the shoulder of the road.