Author's Note: When I wrote the previous chapter, I never intended it to be two parts. Both take place over the same day; this one takes place in the evening.


Chapter 8: The Devil Is In The Details

Monday, October 27, 2014 – Part 2 (EVENING)

Patrick boldly stepped between Tracey and Michael in an attempt to stand his ground. He meant it when he said she wasn't going anywhere, least of all with her father. At the time, the act seemed noble, but it was just short of foolish. True to his nature, acting first and asking questions later, Michael knocked the professor out with one punch hitting him in his left eye, his big flinty fist making contact with Patrick's face.

He could see out of both eyes for a moment before his left one swelled shut and his right one closed following the loss of consciousness. Tracey watched as it happened, helpless to stop it. But she knew there was no reasoning with her father while he was like this: impulsive, irrational, and impatient. Michael practically dragged her out by the arm, forcibly loading her along with her things into the car. She spent the entire drive home inwardly seething, staring out of the passenger window, arms folded and not exchanging a single word with her father.

That is until he pulled into the garage to park. "You ruined my life!" She yelled, fleeing the vehicle and heading inside the house.

Michael sat in the driver's seat with those words hanging over him. "You ruined my life"; Tracey said the same thing in the past, and it held no meaning, but this time he feared it to be true. Had he really just ruined his daughter's life? Rather than give it any more thought, Michael gathered up her bag to take inside. Meanwhile, Tracey was so blind by her own furiousness towards her father; she wasn't watching where she was going. As a result, she accidentally collided with her mother, rounding the corner into the kitchen.

Amanda was just as surprised to see her as she was. "Tracey, what are you doing here?" Her mother knew her father left earlier this morning to take matters into his own hands. But Amanda didn't expect him to bring their daughter home.

Michael walked into the kitchen behind Tracey, who glared in his direction before responding. "You didn't have to hit him!"

"Hit who?" Amanda wondered, and then it dawned on her. "No, Michael, you didn't."

He ignores them both, pouring himself a drink taking a sip before speaking. "Ah, the way that I see it, Patrick got what was coming to him." Michael was the least bit regretful regarding his actions, feeling he did what any father would in his position: protect their child. Well, more like his only little girl.

Amanda is the least bit amused at her husband's response. She dreads asking her next question. "Exactly how hard did you hit him?"

Michael smiles smugly. "Hard enough to make him think twice before sleeping with anyone else's daughter."

"What's wrong with you?" Amanda turns to look at their daughter. "Tracey, go upstairs so your father and I can talk."

Their daughter does as she's told, grabbing her duffle ascending upstairs to her bedroom. Although Tracey knew her mom used the word "talk," she really meant, "argue," which her parents proceeded to do. Amanda redirects her attention to Michael shaking her head in disgust slapping him repeatedly.

Still holding his drink, Michael fends her off with one hand, trying not to spill. "Hey, take it easy!"

"Michael, what the hell were you thinking?"

He shrugs. "I wasn't..."

"Exactly!" Exclaims Amanda. "Michael, you don't think. Instead of thinking things through, you act out irrationally, getting so angry logic and reason go right out the window. And you replace them with suppressed rage and your own self-hatred, taking it out on everybody but yourself!" She grabs the phone off the hook, proceeding to dial a number.

"Who are you calling?"

"Patrick, I want to make sure you didn't kill him." The phone rings a couple of times. "C'mon, pick up, please don't be dead!"

Michael went into the living room, not wanting to be accused of eavesdropping on his wife's call. But just as he made himself comfortable on the couch, Amanda called for his attention. Still, on the phone, she gestured for him to climb the stairs. Michael groaned in response. His wife shot him a stern look while pointing. He begrudgingly set his glass of scotch on the end table and slowly emerged his lazy butt from the couch.

"Why should I have to apologize; I didn't do anything wrong," Michael grumbled under his breath while climbing the steps.

Patrick slowly but surely regained consciousness. However, he could only see out of his right eye the left was practically swelled shut. No thanks to Tracey's father's right hook. Using a corner of the desk as leverage, Patrick struggled to stand upright. Sadly he was unable, so he hoists himself into the computer chair. The professor noted his head hurt and his ears were ringing, or was it the phone? He tentatively picked up the receiver. Patrick recognized Amanda's voice but didn't respond right away. It sounded like she was shouting, causing his head to throb, so he pulled the phone away from his ear.

When it was his turn to speak, he merely shook his head, and then remembered she can't see him through the phone. "I'm fine."

"Listen," Amanda began. "I wanted to apologize on behalf of my hotheaded husband; he means well, but it doesn't justify what he did to you."

In the reflection of the computer monitor, Patrick admires the mark Michael left on him. "Everyone says love hurts, but that's not true."

"What?" Amanda had the slightest idea of what the professor was getting at.

"It's a quote by Mesa Selimovic: "Loneliness hurts. Rejection hurts. Losing someone hurts. Envy hurts. But everyone gets these things confused with love, but in reality, love is the only thing in this world that covers up all the pain and makes someone feel wonderful again. Love is the only thing in this world that doesn't hurt." In sentiment, if a black eye is what I get in efforts of loving your daughter, then it's worth the pain."

After a moment's pause, Amanda finally commented. "That's one way of looking at it, I guess."

Patrick smiled softly through the phone despite her not being able to see him. He felt like Tracey's mom was finally warming up to him or at least the idea of him. "You can tell Tracey I said so."

Amanda found herself smiling too. "I will; are you sure you're alright?"

The professor honestly wasn't sure, but he didn't want to worry Amanda. "Yes," he lied. "Thanks for calling." On that note, Patrick hangs up the phone. Shortly after, it rings once more, and he answers. "I told you I'm fine."

"Good to know," President Hall retorted. "Come to my office. Now." The president ends the call before the professor has a chance to respond.


Michael stood in front of his daughter's bedroom door, prepared to knock until he noticed it was cracked open. "I'm so sorry," he heard Tracey say. To whom was she apologizing? Him? Did she know he was outside her door? As he listened through, his heart sank a little at the sounds of her crying. "Maybe it would be better if I didn't have you." Her father immediately understood to whom she was referring and couldn't believe his ears.

Michael abruptly entered Tracey's room. "Don't say that don't do that, and don't even think like that."

Tracey sat up in bed, ashamed. "Daddy, you were listening?"

"Yeah, and I'm glad that I was," he said, sitting beside her on the bed. "Listen, even though I don't approve of why or how it happened and the fact that it came at the most inopportune time doesn't mean that I'm gonna let you ruin your chance at happiness."

"But daddy, you hate Patrick."

"I don't "hate" him," Michael admits letting out a sigh. "Of all the other guys you've ever been with, I'd say he's the best. He's a better man than I. That's why it's so difficult for me to accept that he likes you, loves you even, loves you so much he's willing to marry you provide for you turn you from being my little girl and into a woman."

Tracey embraces her father, having gained his acceptance. "Just so you know," she reassured him, "not having the baby was never an option."

Amanda stood in Tracey's doorway, smiling at the heartfelt spectacle, thankful they made up. However, the moment was ruined by the sound of a cell phone ringing which was Michaels. He took one glance at the screen, genuinely surprised to see who it was, Lester. Amanda noticed her husband's reaction, thus raising her curiosity but before she could ask, Michael, excused himself from their daughter's bedroom. Unsure of the precise nature of the call, he took it downstairs in the kitchen away from listening ears.

"I thought you said we shouldn't contact each other." Michael wasn't wrong; during their last encounter, his accomplice gave him explicit instructions not to.

Lester's tone was serious. "You remember correctly, but I wouldn't be calling you if this weren't of grave importance."

Michael was confused. When it came to Lester, "this" could mean anything. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

Lester became snippy. "Whatever you're doing, stop and come to my place immediately. I don't feel comfortable telling you over the phone." He ended the call before Michael had the chance to reply or ask any further questions.

Without notice, Michael slipped out of the house to Lester's. Despite the short distance, the drive seems long. All the while, his head is filled with uncertainty at his accomplice's insistence on the impromptu meeting. Naturally, a reckless driver, Michael, is distracted on top of it, nearly resulting in a wreck having sped through an intersection.

"This better be good," he commented upon entering his associate's residence. "I had to sweet-talk my way out of a speeding ticket."

Back turned to Michael, Lester gave a sarcastic reply. "Is there no situation you can't sweet-talk or charm your way out of?"

Without missing a beat, Michael remarks, "I hope I never have to find out." His tone changes from whimsical to serious. "I take it you didn't call me here to shoot the breeze. What's so important you couldn't tell me over the phone?"

Lester types something into the computer then pulls up some webpage to show Michael. "I know you didn't ask me to, but I couldn't help myself; I did some more digging on that professor and discovered something I thought you should be made aware of."

As a father, Michael's mind automatically thinks the worst his face contorts in a grimace of disgust. "Aw, geez, don't tell me he's married."

Lester shakes his head in disagreement. "No."

Thank goodness, Michael thinks to himself. He makes another guess. "He isn't a real professor?"

"Wrong again." With each failed guess, Lester grows more frustrated. "I didn't intend to watch you squirm in a guessing game. I'll gladly tell you if you give me a chance!"

Michael dreads what he will say. "I'm listening."

"How can I put this delicately; let's say this isn't the first time Patrick's been," Lester searches his mind for the appropriate word, "involved with a student."

Michael raises his eyebrows in confusion. "Involved? What do you mean by involved? As in he's slept with his students before? Huh, is that what you're getting at?" He begins reveling. "Oh, now I definitely don't regret teaching him a lesson."

A panicked tone slips into Lester's voice. "How hard a lesson did you teach him exactly because if this lesson was strong enough to say kill him, I told you I don't want any part!"

"Easy, would you calm down?" Michael elaborates, "I didn't kill him; I just took a swing at him, knocking his lights out. Eventually, the guy came around because Amanda spoke to him on the phone. A dead guy can't answer the phone."

"Fine, all right, moving on," replied Lester. "No, Patrick hasn't made a habit of sleeping with his students. But that didn't stop this one girl from trying. Alyson Mitchell, a former student, and Teacher's Assistant so determined to be with professor Jefferies that her attempts bordered from passionate to crazy."

"Meaning what exactly?" asked Michael.

Lester pulled up a copy of the police report regarding the incident to show him. "Alyson followed, spied on, and watched Patrick at home. She made harassing phone calls, sent letters, and unwanted gifts. It got to the point Patrick had to file a restraining order against her because she started stalking them."

"Them? I think you mean him," corrected Michael.

"No, I mean them," reiterated Lester. "The report states Alyson is not to come within 100 feet of Patrick and..." he reads on. "Linda Garrison. Who's Linda Garrison?"

Michael shrugs.


Later that same evening across town in her Vespucci apartment, Linda lies awake in bed deep in thought. Her mind struggled to recount the turn of events that took place earlier this morning. No one could have seen any of what happened to come; she certainly didn't, the detective, the media circus, and least of all, the bomb Patrick dropped. Linda felt ashamed the more she thought about overreacting to what he disclosed to her.

A part of her knew why she told him, figuring Patrick had no one else to turn to in such a time of need. How does she repay his trust in confiding such private information a stinging slap to the face? Is that any way to treat a friend? No. The worst part is Linda knew it. She sat up in bed.

I've got to make this right, she thought.

Linda raced about her apartment. She frantically put on her slippers, pulled a jacket over her nightgown, and grabbed her car keys. However, as she opened her front door, Linda was startled by the presence of a young woman. Suddenly a look of familiarity followed by shock crept across Linda's face as her brain recognized her. It was Alyson Mitchell.


Michael has an epiphany. "Wait a minute, did you say this stalker chick sent letters? What kind of letters?" He pulls out his phone to show Lester. "Letters like this?" It's a copy of Patrick's disciplinary action letter Michael forwarded to himself.

Lester takes the phone from him reading it over. "Alyson could have easily written this. She took Patrick's class, and that letter looks and sounds official to me. Not to mention the subliminal threats."

Michael's genuinely shocked. "What subliminal threats?"

Lester re-reads the letter. "Look, the first line of the first paragraph says, "It's been brought to our attention..." That indicates Alyson has been made aware that Patrick's with someone else. The second line of the third paragraph state, "Although we are aware that this is your first instance of disciplinary action due to its severity, we cannot let you go off with just a simple warning." Obviously, it's not the first time he's been with a student, and Alyson is planning or going to do something about it."

"You don't think she'd do something drastic like kill him?" inquires Michael. "Do you?"

Lester shakes his head. "Not likely. Alyson shows the classic signs of a rejected stalker. Meaning she didn't start following Patrick until their relationship, whatever that may have been, was over."


"Alyson," Linda said a bit too sharply, her voice edged with panic. She stood there in her doorway, looking every bit threatening, lips pursed with a violent look in her eyes. Alyson's body language told her she was nervous as hell, so why was Linda's heart racing, and why did her palms begin to sweat at the sight of her?

"Aren't you going to invite me inside?"

Before she had the chance to reply, Alyson entered. With each step Alyson took towards her, Linda took two steps back. She cornered her in the kitchen, standing uncomfortably close. Linda stood paralyzed by fear as Alyson spoke.

"You don't look very happy to see me."

Linda couldn't think straight; she was too shocked. Crap. How does Alyson expect me to answer? Honestly? Should I lie? Damn it. She tries to choose her words carefully.

"It's... been a while."

Alyson's face contorts into a non-aggressive facial expression. Her voice laced with hostility.

"Try three years!"


Michael isn't sure what to think. He looks to Lester, hoping he knows what to do.

Lester stares back. "Well, don't look at me. I spy on people; I don't stalk them."

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Isn't it the same thing?"

"No!" Defends Lester. "I stay well informed on world politics and the machinations and details of corporate activities. I could care less what brand of toilet paper someone bought or who they're dating."

"Shit!" exclaims Michael.

"What?" wonders Lester.

"Patrick, I've gotta get to him before Alyson does if she hasn't already."

Lester stops Michael before he has the chance to leave.

"Wait!"

"What?"

"I don't want you going unarmed." Lester wheels himself over to a chest. He releases the easy flip tabs unlocking it. He takes out a weapon handing it to Michael, who eyes it questionably.

"Uh, I've already got a gun."

"Not like this one you don't," boasts Lester.

Michael hightailed it from Lester's across town to the professors. His tires screeched as his Tailgator came to a halt in the drive. He opens the glove box arming himself with the gun Lester gave him. Michael cautiously enters the premises. He makes it past the threshold stepping around the front door he so rudely and now regrettably kicked down. He notes the living room is clear and proceeds to check the rest of the house. Michael clears the downstairs, including the hallway, the bathroom, and the study. The only room left to check is the kitchen. He enters slowly upon hearing someone in there. However, Michael yields his weapon and drops his guard once he sees who it is.

"Whoa! Hey! Don't shoot! It's only me!" exclaimed Patrick lowering the frozen steak from his eye.

"Wow, don't you look pretty?" snide Michael, admiring the professor's black eye.

"I take your sarcasm in stride. What? Have you come to finish me off? Was knocking me out not good enough?" Patrick seated himself on a stool at the kitchen island.

"I ain't here to shoot you," Michael assures, laying the weapon on the counter.

Patrick looks at him skeptically. "Why not? Is there only one bullet in that gun too?"

"Forget the gun. Where's Alyson?"

"Who?"

Michael grows impatient, grabbing the professor by the shirt. "Alyson Mitchell. If she's after you, you need to tell me right now!"


It's obvious to Alyson that her presence is making Linda uncomfortable. Her bottom lip is quivering, and a tear has streamed down her cheek.

"I did everything you asked me to do," pleaded Linda.

She's been doing Alyson's bidding the whole time. It's no coincidence Linda was at the same Dollar Pills as Patrick. She also sent the fake disciplinary action letter forging the President's signature.

"I know," replied Alyson. "But now you're going to do one last thing for me."

Linda cries, shaking her head in disagreement. "No."

"Oh yes, you are," demanded Alyson. "Unless you want me to tell Patrick what you did."

"No! Please!"

"Then do exactly as I say."


With Patrick in no shape to drive, Michael takes him to the college. They head there intending to alert President Hall of what's occurred. The professor instructs Michael to park in the faculty lot.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" asked Michael.

"I'll be fine," assured Patrick.

From there, he walked across campus to the President's office. It felt strange returning to campus for two reasons. Firstly, he hadn't set foot on campus since Fall break. Secondly, he was rarely there after hours. Once the professor approached the building, he headed inside, walking the length of the hallway. As he came nearer to his destination, Patrick heard voices.

"Thank you, Miss Garrison," Patrick heard President Hall say. "You've been most helpful. Your insight is much appreciated."

Linda brushes past Patrick in the hallway on her way out. However, she avoids making direct eye contact casting her gaze on the floor.

"Linda?"

She doesn't answer, continuing on her way. As Patrick entered the office, the door was already open. Robert's back is to him, but he encourages Patrick to come in anyhow. The professor seats himself in an empty chair in front of the Presidents desk.

"President Hall, may I ask you something?"

Back still turned, Robert pulls a manila-colored file from a cabinet. "If you feel you must."

Patrick swallows hard before asking. "What was Linda doing here?"

"She came here voluntarily whereas you are here per my request." President Hall pauses before adding, "I'm sorry that it had to come to this Jefferies."

"Sir?"

Patrick felt skeptical about coming here in the first place, and now he wished he hadn't. Suddenly the office door swung closed, revealing a third party.

"You're a difficult man to track down," they said, stepping out from behind the door. "Allow me to introduce myself; I'm Detective Pierce. I've wanted to speak with you for quite some time. I'm just sorry that I had to do it under these circumstances."

Patrick turned his attention back to President Hall. "What's the meaning of this?"

Facing him, Robert takes notice of the professor's appearance. "My goodness, what happened to your eye?"

For a brief moment, he'd forgotten about it, and Patrick wasn't sure how to explain.

"Look," began the detective. "I don't wish to take this to a higher level of authority if I can possibly help it."

"I should hope not," President Hall commented.

Detective Pierce shot him a warning look not to interrupt. "Patrick, would you be willing to answer a few questions?"

"Yes, he would," the President chimed in.

He began getting on the detective's nerves. If he kept this up, the professor wouldn't speak with them. Detective Pierce could tell Patrick was nervous with every right to be. They'd already lured and ambushed him; he didn't want to make him feel interrogated on top of it. The detective took a reassuring tone in hopes of calming Patrick down.

"We're just chatting," he promised. Lucky for him, his tactic worked; Patrick visibly became more relaxed in his chair.

"Tell me what you want to know, and I'll see if I can oblige."

"Very well. What is the precise nature of your relationship with Tracey De Santa?" The detective watched as Patrick grew nervous again. Maybe he should have started with a different question.

"She's one of my students. But ⏤"

"Yes, we've established that. I was wondering if it went beyond that?"

Patrick didn't like the emphasis used on the word "beyond," but he knew he had to reply. He attempted to dodge the question by acting offended. "I don't think I like what you're implying."

Pierce smiled to himself, knowing they were on the right track. "Tell me, have you ever spent time with her outside of campus?"

A twinge of panic came over Patrick. He looked away from the detective, glanced at President Hall, and then back. He swallowed hard before answering. "Yes, I have."

The detective raised an eyebrow deciding to test his honesty. "Really? In what way?"

Patrick decided there was no further sense in trying to dance around the truth. "Socially. We spent time at a Bean Machine chatting over cups of coffee. Listen, there's something else I want to tell you!"

President Hall shook his head in disgust; he could no longer hold his tongue. "You are a professor in the field of education and a representative to this school! As such, I expect you to behave and conduct yourself appropriately in and away from the college!"

Patrick didn't want to hear it attempting to leave. "If this is one of your "for the good of the school" speeches, don't bother. I've heard them."

"Just stay seated!" President Hall warned. "Tracey De Santa is a student your student. Engaging in a relationship, friendship, or otherwise is frowned upon, not to mention against school policies. Surely you must have known that?"

"I do. But..."

President Hall raised his voice and out of his chair in anger. "No, Jefferies, this is unacceptable! If I'm treating you unfairly, it's only because of this scandal. The press is all over this, circulating rumors and publicity. Slandering the school and my good name!"

"With all due respect, sir, it's not you in those photos. It's me..." All at once, everything was beginning to make sense to Patrick. "This is all about your image? Isn't it? You're so obsessed with your retirement plans and having the first clean record as President; you can't see past yourself."

The professor's last comment clearly struck a nerve. President Hall furiously slammed both hands on the desk. "I've come too far and worked too hard to be brought down by some scandal that may or may not be complete...bullshit!"

Detective Pierce felt bound to interject. "President Hall, if you please, I'll take it from here."

Robert calmed down, allowing the detective to do his job.

"Patrick, you said you had something you wanted to say, well now is your chance."

In a nutshell, the professor informed Detective Pierce and President Hall of everything that occurred in the past 24-hours. Including Alyson and the disciplinary action letter. He pulled out his cell phone to show them. The detective glanced at it, passing the phone to Robert, who read through it.

"Did you send this to me?" asked Patrick.

President Hall gave an outward sigh. He spots his signature at the bottom of the letter. "It would appear so, but I don't remember writing this." He hands the professor his phone back. "Policy requires us to mail a physical copy of the letter as well. May I see it?"

Patrick feels foolish. "I never received one."

President Hall logs into the computer. He reviews his e-mails. "What bothers me is the day that I sent this."

Patrick shot him a look of confusion.

"The date on the letter is 10/24/2014 that's a Saturday. Do you think I have nothing better to do on my weekends?"

Why hadn't he noticed that before? Patrick has an epiphany while thinking. Saturday I received the letter. Sunday, Linda asked me out. Linda! He urgently rises from his chair. "Excuse me; I have somewhere else I have to be."

"No, we're not done discussing this," says Detective Pierce.

Patrick moves past him, heading for the door.

"Jefferies. Jefferies, get back here at once!" yells President Hall.

While heading back towards the faculty parking lot, Patrick realizes Michael isn't alone. Linda is waiting for him too. She appears distraught. As soon as she spots Patrick, she races over to hug him. He doesn't reciprocate. When he pulls away, Linda can see the hurt and anger in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," begged Linda.

"Save it," dismissed Patrick attempting to walk off.

Having heard both sides of the story, Michael cuts in. He grabs the professor by the arm. "Hey, you need to hear her out."

Patrick shrugs him off. "Back off! Both of you! I've had enough of your crap." He looks to Michael. "Between your deep disapproval," he turns to look at Linda. "And whatever you're playing at, I'm done! No one is willing to help me, let alone listen."

"You listen!" demanded Michael. Patrick stops in his tracks. "Linda's not playing you. Alyson's was blackmailing her."

"Is that true?" inquires Patrick. Linda nods her head. He feels guilty. "I didn't know she got to you."

"Your the one she wants," admits Linda. "Alyson made me do a lot of things, including the letter forging the President's signature and dating..." she pauses, then shamefully adds, "...And drugging you."

Michael's eyes grow wide with shock.

Patrick is in disbelief. "You... you drugged me!? When? With what?"

"It wasn't my doing; it was Alyson's," defends Linda. "Benzodiazepine. I put some in the wine while you were at my place for dinner."

Patrick grabs Linda by the shoulders. "What else?"

Linda takes a deep breath. "Your tea. She laced your teabags with it."

Patrick lets Linda go.

Anger rises in Michael. "You bitch!" He slaps her across the face.

Linda holds her cheek.

Patrick intervenes, stepping between them. "You don't hit her!"

"She drugged Tracey!" Michael exclaims.

"What? I would never..." says Linda.

"Bullshit!" Michael directs his attention to Patrick. "The night my wife was intent on shooting you, you sent Tracey upstairs and made her some tea. If she drank it..."

"Tracey didn't drink the tea," confirms Patrick. "And Linda knows about the baby."

Michael looks at Linda apologetically. "Sorry for slapping you."

Linda moves past it, changing the subject. "What are you going to do about Alyson?"