- "Love is passion, obsession, someone you can't live without."

Quote by William Parrish aka Sir Anthony Hopkins from Meet Joe Black (1998)


Chapter 9: Love. Passion. Obsession.


Detective Pierce was ready to walk out of President Hall's office until Robert called after him.

"And where might I ask do you think you're going?"

The detective stood in the doorway, yawning before answering. "Home to get some sleep while I still can; if you're smart, you'll do the same thing."

"On the contrary," said President Hall rising from his desk. He handed off a file folder.

Pierce opened it looking over its contents. "This is Tracey De Santa's student file."

"Yes, I'm aware of that."

"What do you want me to do with it?"

President Hall sighed. "It's not what I want you to do with the file; it's what I want you to do with the information."

Detective Pierce quickly caught on. "You want me to go to this poor girl's house this late at night?"

"Yes."

Pierce dejectedly tossed the file back on Hall's desk. "I'm sorry, but I'm not doing that."

"And why not?" President Hall asked incredulously.

"The school hired me to investigate the campus scandal; therefore, I refuse to operate outside school grounds."

President Hall sneered. "I hired you. I'm paying you to investigate the scandal, and I'm telling you to follow up on Tracey De Santa!"

The detective didn't argue. "Fine," he said, collecting the file and storming out of the office.

He got in his unmarked cop car and drove from the ULS campus to the De Santa residence. Little did Pierce know he had a tail, but he was too tired to notice.


Patrick had already devised a plan in his mind. Aware Alyson knew where each of them lived; the professor figured it would be best to stay elsewhere. To ensure Linda's safety, he convinced her to stay with her sister. Michael offered to pay for a repairperson and a locksmith to fix Patrick's door. In the meantime, the professor could live with the De Santa's.

"Are you sure?" questioned Patrick. "I don't want to put anybody out."

Michael smirked. "Believe me, the only person put out is me. I'm already in the doghouse with my wife. It's the least I could do. Besides, at least this way, I can keep an eye on you."

Patrick smiled and laughed nervously. "Wait, this is a great plan except for one thing."

"What?"

"I don't have anything else to wear besides what I have on."

"Don't worry; we can swing by your place to pick up whatever you need."

Michael drove from the ULS campus to Patrick's place in Del Perro. The professor urged him to park on the street instead of in the driveway. The last thing he wanted to do was compromise their safety, especially if Alyson made Michael's vehicle.

"Stay here," said Patrick. "I'll grab what I need and be back." He exited the car then crossed the street.

"Don't take too long," remarked Michael watching the clock on the dashboard, timing the professor.

Meanwhile, inside the residence, Patrick was scrambling to collect things. He stuffed his clothes into a suitcase but struggled to zip it shut. After the first five minutes, Michael began listening to the radio. He started bopping along with the song and drumming his hands on the steering wheel.

"What's taking him so long?"

Suddenly some headlights from behind blinded Michael flooding his rearview mirror. Asshole, turn off your brights. To avoid being noticed, he slouched in his seat. Michael watched the driver get out and cross the street but didn't have a clear view of them. He guessed it was Alyson. Shit! I've gotta warn Patrick. Assuming the professor was near a window and could see the street, Michael flashed his headlights to warn him.

Patrick went over a checklist in his mind: Clothes, check. Shaving kit, check. What else? I think that's everything. The professor lugged his suitcase downstairs. Sadly he didn't notice Michael's signal. Patrick went to the study, flipping on a light but was startled by someone.

He gasped. "What are you doing here?"

Michael sprung into action. He opened the glove box retrieving the gun Lester gave him. Armed and dangerous, he exited his vehicle and made his move. Michael cautiously entered the house while wielding his weapon. Where did she go? He made his way through the house, clearing each room as he went. He heard voices, one male one female in the study, opting to head there. Patrick was facing Michael, but Alyson wasn't. Without thinking, Michael aimed, firing a round into her neck. She dropped to the floor.

"What the hell?" declared Patrick racing to her aid. "Linda? Can you hear me?" He propped her head up in his lap.

"Shit," expressed Michael leaning down to take the tranquilizer dart out of her neck. "Sorry, I thought she was Alyson."

"Well, clearly she isn't!"

"What is she even doing here in the first place?" wondered Michael.

"She left her purse," explained Patrick. "Linda was in such a rush earlier this morning she forgot it. She came back to retrieve it and make amends for the rude way she spoke to Tracey."

"Speaking of, we've gotta get to Tracey before Alyson does if she hasn't already."

Patrick looked up at Michael. "I'm not leaving Linda here alone, vulnerable and unconscious."

"Fine," retorted Michael bending down to carry her. He slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "I've got her; you get your suitcase, and let's get the hell out of here." Both men walk back to Michael's Tailgator. He pushes a button to pop the trunk.

Patrick opposed. "You are not stuffing her body in your trunk!"

"I wasn't gonna," defends Michael. "I figured that's where you'd put your suitcase."

Patrick feels stupid. He loads his suitcase into the trunk then assists Michael in securing Linda in the back seat before taking off. On the drive there, Michael calls Amanda, his heart racing all the while. Sadly, it goes straight to voicemail.

"This is Amanda. Unfortunately, I can't come to the phone right now. Namaste."

"Shit! Mandy, pick up the phone!" He tries his daughter. It goes to voicemail too.

"This is Tracey De Santa. I'm probably studying; so [she laughs] PSYCH! Uh, leave a message, and we'll hang."

Michael bothers calling his son, which goes to voicemail as well.

"This is James De Santa's personal line. If you received my resume by e-mail and would like to discuss how my combination of street smarts and book knowledge can improve your business, please leave a message."

"No one is answering their phone; this isn't good," remarks Michael.

"I've got a bad feeling," comments Patrick.

Michael makes it home, but Amanda's car is not in the driveway.

"Patrick, stay here with Linda. I'm going inside."

Michael arms himself with the tranquilizer gun. He enters through the front door, hearing voices in the kitchen. One voice belonged to his wife, the other he didn't recognize. Amanda didn't sound in distress but rather flirty, releasing a chuckle. Michael moved closer, noting the other person was a man. Anger and jealousy caused him not to think straight. Assuming Amanda was cheating, he had a shot and took it.

"Lights out, asshole."

Michael gladly fired a dart into the guy's back. Amanda screamed as her presumed lover's body fell limp to the kitchen floor. She spots Michael taking her anger out on him.

"Oh my God, you shot him!" Amanda stared puzzled at the body. "Why's there no blood?"

"Uh, 'cause I'm not an animal," snarked Michael waving the gun. "I shot him with a tranquilizer."

Amanda angrily glares at her husband. "You shouldn't have shot him at all. He's a detective!"

"I thought you were cheating on me," defends Michael.

"Well, I'm not!" declared Amanda.

"Why isn't your car in the driveway?"

"Jimmy borrowed it to get to work!"

Tracey hears her parents arguing downstairs, deciding to check it out. She shrieks at the sight of a body on the floor. Michael and Amanda cover their ears.

"Daddy, you killed Detective Pierce!"

"I didn't kill anybody!"

"Your father shot him with a tranquilizer."

Patrick grew impatient, waiting for Tracey's father to return. He took it upon himself to go inside the house. The professor heard voices in the kitchen.

"Is everything okay?" asked Patrick.

Tracey lit up at the sound of his voice racing to hug him. As she quit embracing him, she frowned at his black eye. "That doesn't look good."

Patrick smiled at her. "It looks worse than it is." He looked past her at the body on the floor. "Is that Detective Pierce?"

"Yes!" Confirms Michael. "And for the record, I didn't kill him!"

"Good to know," states a voice from behind. It's Alyson; she entered unnoticed. Everyone looks at her nervously as she continues speaking. "I was beginning to think he was a lousy detective. But he led me straight to you," she said, gazing at Patrick. "I followed Detective Pierce here from the ULS campus. I figured if anyone knew where you were, it was him. I must admit this place is a bit upscale for a professor's salary."

"It's not his house; it's mine," said Michael making a move for the tranquilizer gun aiming it at Alyson.

She was the least bit phased, smiling smugly at him. Alyson took out a gun of her own. "Mines got bullets; how about yours?"

Patrick noted the malicious look in Alyson's eyes, knowing she was acting out of sorts. Her appearance was disheveled, and he could tell she was at her wit's end. It wasn't like Alyson to go this far, and the professor didn't want anyone else to get hurt. Patrick looked at Michael and Amanda, and then Tracey before swallowing hard making a hasty decision.

He whispered to Tracey. "Do you trust me?" She nodded.

Alyson grew irritated. "What are you whispering?"

Patrick boldly and foolishly stepped forward. "Alyson, I will gladly go with you," he declared.

She softened her gaze. "Really?"

"Yes," confirmed the professor. He spoke calmly. "On one condition, that you do not hurt these people. They haven't done anything wrong." Patrick stepped closer to her intending to show no harm and gain her trust. His tactic proved effective; Alyson dropped her guard, lowering the gun. Her next move startled him as Alyson embraced Patrick. "Everything will be alright," he assured, stroking her hair.

Alyson looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "Take me to your place; I want to be alone with you."

Against his better judgment, Patrick agreed. Thrilled by his response, Alyson spun Patrick around, using him as a shield. She didn't want to take the chance of Michael shooting her. The pair backed away as Alyson led Patrick outside to her vehicle. Once they were gone, the De Santa's looked to each other for what to do.

"Daddy, you have to go after them!"

"I will; I promise no one threatens my family and gets away with it." Michael pulls out his phone.

Amanda looks at him questionably. "Who are you calling?"

"Reinforcements. Frank, it's me. Listen, I need you and Trevor to meet me at Lester's and await further instructions."


Across town in El Burro Heights, Lester watches the monitor of the street view anxiously, anticipating Michael's arrival. Trevor was beginning to get on his last nerve. "He's here!" Lester buzzes Michael in.

"So," began Franklin, "what fucked up situation you roping my ass into this time?"

Michael smiled, embracing him. "That obvious, huh?"

Trevor rose from the bed, rejoicing. "Yes, this is what I'm talking about; the three amigos are back together again!" He placed a hand on his accomplice's shoulders. "So, what are we doing? Are we robbing someone, killing someone, or stealing something?"

"I admire your enthusiasm T., but we're not doing any of that," replied Michael.

Trevor headed for the front door intending to walk off.

"Hey, where are you going?" wondered Michael.

"It would appear my services not required for your particular brand of screw-up." Trevor looks at Franklin. "C'mon, you coming are what?"

Franklin sighed. "Man, hold up." He looks at Michael. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Things all right!" declares Michael. "Look, you remember I told you about Tracey? Her boyfriend..."

Franklin tries to recall. "Shit, I think so. What's the deal with Tracey's boyfriend, man?"

"He's in trouble, deep trouble," explains Michael. "This crazy stalker chick is after him, and if we don't do something about it..." Michael leaves the rest to their imagination.

"Ah, fuck, man!" says Franklin.

"Oh, fuck, man, yeah," replies Michael. "That ain't even the worse part! I ever tell you about Linda? Huh?"

That arouses Trevor's curiosity. "Who the fuck is Linda?"

"Don't get any funny ideas T." says Michael. "She's Patrick's ex. Her body is in my car."

"Who's being funny?" asks Trevor.

"I'm being serious," remarks Michael. "Lester, if I get Linda out of my car, can she stay here?"

"Well, yeah, sure," before Lester can finish his sentence, Michael goes to get Linda. He gently lays her on Lester's bed. "My issue isn't her being here," states Lester, "What is she going to think when she regains consciousness in a stranger's place?"

"I've got a solution for that," Michael says, handing Lester the tranquilizer gun. "Here, use your imagination."

"Gee, thanks," retorts Lester. "While I play babysitter, what will you three be doing?"

"We will be taking down Alyson," replies Michael.


Aside from giving Alyson directions to his place, Patrick didn't speak to her, which she found frustrating. But Alyson understood. What would they say to one another? After all, it's been three years, no thanks to the restraining order. Alyson always thought she'd know just what to say, but now the time had come, and she was at a loss for words.

Patrick broke her train of thought. "Stop here; this is the place."

Alyson pulled the car into the driveway, cut the engine, and sat idle for a moment. She reached across Patrick to retrieve something from the glove box; the magazine for the gun.

He felt betrayed. "The gun wasn't even loaded?"

"Nope," she said, reassembling it, "I needed some insurance."

"I would have come with you willingly."

Alyson smirked. "I didn't know that for sure hence the gun," she jams it into his ribs. "Now exit the vehicle."

Patrick does as instructed, unfastening his seatbelt. He opens the car door, and they both exit out. They make it down the walkway to the front door that is still damaged. Alyson wonders what happened but doesn't bother asking, forcing the professor inside. The living room is dark, so she tells him to turn on a light. Patrick switches on a lamp.

"Okay, you've got me; we're alone. Now what?"

Alyson curiously looks around. "What's in here?" she wonders, venturing down the hall.

"That's the study," replies Patrick following close behind.

Alyson is in awe of the layout including the wood-panel walls with a built-in bookshelf. She notes a copy of Patrick's Ph.D. in Creative Writing hung on the wall above the desk.

"A day in the life of Patrick Jefferies," Alyson comments pulling the computer chair out taking a seat. She lays the gun on the desk.

Patrick stands cross-armed, staring at Alyson. Several questions came to mind as he looked at her: What does she want after all this time? What happens once she gets it? Above all else, why did she do what she's done? Before he can ask her anything, she speaks up.

"Aren't you going to give me the grand tour?" Alyson spins around in the office chair, making herself dizzy. She waits for the dizziness to subside before standing. "Well, come on, show me the rest of the house."

"What room would you like to see next?"

Patrick regrets asking the moment he finishes his sentence. He swallows hard, fearing she'll say the bedroom but is pleasantly surprised at her response.

Alyson ponders before replying, "The kitchen."

Patrick cooperates, leading her to the kitchen. He flips on the light above the stove then leans on the kitchen island. Alyson hoists herself onto a barstool. She stares at him while smiling, making him uncomfortable. The professor can't tell what her intent is.

"Are you a morning person?" asked Alyson, "I've always pictured you as one."

"I am when I need to be."

Alyson hopped down from the barstool. She came around the kitchen island, standing next to him. Patrick became nervous being alone with her. As a result, he began sweating; thankfully, he was wearing a dark-colored shirt, so hopefully, it wasn't noticeable. His heart raced in anticipation and uncertainty. Alyson reached out her hand to stroke his cheek, slightly irritating the professor's black eye in the process.

Patrick flinched at her touch. "Careful," he winces in pain. "It hurts."

"What happened to your eye?"

The professor panics. What was he supposed to say? I got it defending the woman I love, which isn't you. There's no telling how Alyson will react if he tells her that. He opts to stretch the truth.

"I... used it to stop a fist from going through my face."

Alyson chuckles at his witty response. Patrick stares at her questionably. How was she able to act so relaxed? He's standing over there, losing it, thinking of how to escape.

"You should put some ice on it to prevent swelling," suggests Alyson.

"I agree. I think I have an icepack in the freezer."

Alyson opens the freezer rummaging around in search of an icepack. While she's distracted, Patrick takes the opportunity to look for a weapon. Now I really wish I knew how to cook. Damn me for not owning any cutlery knives! He takes a butter knife from the drain rack, hoping it will be sharp enough to cause damage. The professor quickly conceals it in his sleeve. Alyson gently applies the icepack to his eye.

"Better?"

Patrick nods.

They stand there staring at each other for what feels like forever before Alyson presses herself against him. The professor doesn't stop her, so she takes it as a sign to go further. Alyson lowers the arm Patrick's using to hold the icepack in place, which wouldn't be a bad thing if it weren't the same concealing the butter knife. It falls to the floor with an audible clank noise.

"What was that?" asks Alyson trying to look on the floor.

"Nothing," Patrick prevents her from seeing, tilting her chin up towards him. "You look ravishing in this light."

Alyson gazes at him, a lovelorn look in her eyes. "I do?"

"Absolutely," Patrick lies, trying to be as convincing as possible. "Kiss me," he states, deciding to sell his performance.

Alyson's moan causes him to break the kiss. However, he was successful in distracting her. She cups his cheek.

"I knew you still loved me."

Patrick couldn't bring himself to reply; instead, he just held Alyson close. In turn, she looked at him longingly.

"Where's the bedroom?"

His heart dropped from his chest to his stomach. Alyson awaited his response.

Patrick cleared his throat. "Up... upstairs."

Alyson smiled at him. "Lead the way."

The professor thought of every reason not to go through with what he knew would undoubtedly transpire. But he played Alyson this far, so it was too late to turn back now. Patrick grabbed her by the hand, leading Alyson up the staircase to his bedroom.


"F. Can you hear me?" came Michael's voice through Franklin's earpiece.

"Loud and clear, homie," replied Franklin watching through the view of a high-powered thermal scope sniper rifle. He was staked out in a hotel room at Banner Hotel & Spa across the street from Patrick's place, keeping an eye out. "You in position?"

"Almost," said Michael. "Where's T.?"

"Don't you worry about me," said Trevor, "when the time comes for me to do my part, I'll be ready."

"You sure as hell better be," snark Michael. "F. Where are they at?"

Franklin looked through the scope. "It looks like they're upstairs in a bedroom."

Michael shuddered in disgust at his response. "Let's just get this over with."


Patrick took a deep breath before sitting on the bed next to Alyson. She was on cloud nine, but he felt like he was going to throw up.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look sick."

"I could use a glass of water."

Alyson gladly got up from the bed to fetch him one. Unaware Patrick kept a glass in the bathroom; Alyson ventured downstairs to the kitchen. She looked through the cabinets in search of a cup. Once she found one, Alyson filled it with tap water and quickly returned upstairs.

"Patrick?" she called out.

For some reason, the professor turned out the bedroom light. In turn, it made it darker, which made it more difficult to see. The only light was from the streetlamp shining through the window.

"I'm on the bed," he replied.

Alyson handed him the cup of water, which he took from her and drank.

"Tell me something, Alyson," began Patrick. "What do you want with me after all this time?"

Alyson reached for his hand to hold. "I guess you, of all people, deserve to know." She interlocked her fingers with his. "I'm just going to come out and say it: I want to have a baby with you."

Patrick's eyes got wide. What game was she playing? Does this mean Alyson knows Tracey's pregnant? Is this her way of getting him to admit it?

Alyson continues her explanation. "We both have good genes, and I think we'd make a beautiful baby together."

Patrick's mind starts to wander. He thinks about Tracey, who is pregnant with his baby.

"A baby is a lifelong commitment, one I'm not sure I'm ready for."

Alyson frowns. "With the right person, a baby could be worth the while."

"Say I agree with you say I make love to you and give you what you want, then what?"

Alyson's enthused at Patrick's response. "Then we'd be connected in a way you never were with Linda proving once and for all that I'm your true love!"

She cuddles up with him but quickly notices something is amiss.

"There's only one problem," declares Patrick.

"What's that?" dreaded Alyson.

He sits up, leaning forward, so he's more in the light. "I'm not your true love," replied Michael, dressed in Patrick's clothes. He cleverly swapped places with him when Alyson went downstairs.

Alyson gasps, feeling deceit releasing Michael's hand.

"Who the hell are you? Where's Patrick?" she demands.

"Somewhere safe," replies Michael.

Alyson frantically calls out for Patrick while searching for him throughout the house. "Patrick? Patrick! Where are you?"

"T.," said Michael over his earpiece, "Whatever move you plan on making, I hope you make it fast."

Trevor heard Michael through his earpiece but chose not to reply, fearing it would give away his position. He was also inside the house, trying to get his bearings in the dark.

Meanwhile, Alyson didn't like being a fool. Sadly Michael's trick pushed her over the edge. Any chance of verbally reasoning with her was gone. Now Alyson would take her vengeance out on whoever crossed her path. Unfortunately that someone was Trevor. They both ended up in the study squaring off.

"Hi," greeted Trevor, "you must be the crazy stalker chick everyone's talking about." He gave her a look-over. "I gotta say you don't look all that crazy or stalker-y to me."

Alyson didn't engage him. Instead, she kept her eyes focused intensely on the gun on the desk. Trevor followed her gaze.

He let out a heavy sigh. "You really don't want to do that..."

"F.," said Michael through his earpiece. "We got Alyson to confess, and Patrick's out of the house safely. Where's Trevor?"

Franklin searches for Trevor through the scope then hears a loud noise.

"Yo, Michael, what's going on? I heard what sounded like gunfire."

"Trevor!" Michael races downstairs to find him. All the while cursing under his breath. "I swear to God if..." Michael's heart sinks at the sight of Alyson and his friend's bodies in the study. "Oh my God, T! Trevor?" He kneels to check Trevor for a tranquilizer dart but doesn't find one. "Oh, shit, she shot him!"

"Damn," replied Franklin, "Fo' real?"

Michael examines Alyson's body finding a dart in her heart.

"Trevor! That crazy son-of-a-bitch switched the guns," explained Michael. He propped Trevor's head in his lap. "Don't die on me, T.!" He frantically searched his friend's body."

"Michael, what are you looking for?" wondered Franklin.

"The exit wound."

"You're not gonna find one," groaned Trevor.

"T! You're alive," expressed Michael.

"Don't sound so surprised," replied Trevor peeling back his clothing revealing a bulletproof vest. "Told you I came prepared. It's not the first time the wrong person got shot."

"Brad? Really? You're bringing that up now?" teased Michael trying to lighten the mood.

"Franklin," began Trevor through the earpiece, "I've gotta say I'm disappointed you didn't mourn a little for your fallen homie."

"Shit, dog, you didn't exactly give me much time to feel," replied Franklin. "You were dead all of what? Ten seconds."

"Still, though," said Trevor groaning in pain.

Sirens sounded as authorities and paramedics arrived on the scene.

"Oh shit!" comments Franklin, "It's the one time. You guys might wanna get out of there."

"I'm not leaving without Trevor," says Michael. He helps his friend stand up. "Can you walk?"

"The bitch shot me in the chest, not the leg," remarks Trevor heading towards the back door.

Michael takes one last look at Alyson's unconscious body before fleeing the scene. He and Trevor give the cops the slip, racing across the street to the Banner Hotel and Spa, where Franklin awaits with the getaway vehicle. Both men climb in. Michael sits in the passenger seat, and Trevor sits in the back. To Trevor's surprise, a fourth guy was in the vehicle with them.

"Who the hell are you?" asks Trevor glaring at him suspiciously.

Patrick becomes uncomfortable. He must be the psychotic friend Michael was referring to, "I... I'm Patrick."

"Ooooh..." exclaims Trevor wrapping an arm around him. "You must be the boyfriend I've heard so much about; wait a minute, Michael hasn't told me shit about you! Tell me something do you think you're worth taking a bullet for?"

Patrick gets flustered, unable to respond. He gags at Trevor's repulsive stench.

"I hope so," remarks Trevor, "because that's what I did for you tonight, my friend."

Michael turns around to look at Trevor and Patrick. He chuckles. "See, and you were worried he wouldn't like you."

"Worried? You've got nothing to worry about!" Assures Trevor. He pulls Patrick close, whispering something only he can hear. "The only thing you need to worry about is keeping your skin because I will peel it directly off the bone like a rack of ribs if you hurt Tracey!" Patrick cowers in fear. "Nod and laugh with me if you understand." Both men laugh obnoxiously in unison. "I'm glad we understand each other." Trevor release Patrick from his grip.

The professor rolls down the window gasping for air.

Franklin looks in the rearview, laughing. "What'd Trevor say to him?"

"Beats me," replies Michael.

"This has been real, and all but something's bugging me," admits Franklin.

"What?"

"How'd the cops get the drop on us?"

Michael shakes his head. "I don't know, kid, your guess is as good as mine..."

Franklin gets his answer once he pulls into Michael's driveway.

"Davey?" questions Michael exiting the vehicle. "What are you doing here? You checking up on me?"

"No, I thought I'd never see the likes of you again," replied Dave. "But when my friend Detective Pierce said he was in trouble, it had your name written all over it."

Michael gave an exasperated sigh. "Listen, I don't know what he told you, but all I did was shoot him with a tranquilizer."

"Yes, I know," replied Dave. "You can imagine my relief when I found him passed out instead of dead on your kitchen floor. I can say the same about Linda Garrison and Alyson Mitchell."

"What about Linda?" inquires Patrick.

"She's fine," replies Dave, "Detective Pierce took her to her sisters."

"You!" shouts Trevor pointing at Dave Norton. "You cagey-government-shit-bag-motherfucker!" Trevor feels anger and betrayal under the impression Michael is in cohorts again with the feds. Franklin restrains him. "Let me go!"

"Not until you calm the fuck down," states Franklin.

"What about Alyson?" asks Michael.

"Alyson was taken into police custody and admitted to the psych ward of the prison for evaluation," explains Dave.

Michael looks at Dave, concerned. "You better hope she doesn't escape prison."

"She won't," assured Dave.

"If she does," continued Michael, "she better pray to God I don't find her first because if I do, I'll kill her, especially if she comes after him," he points at Patrick, "or my family."

"Understood," replied Dave. On that note, he got in his car and took off.

Franklin released Trevor. "Man, you cool?"

"I'm fine!" fumes Trevor. He walks up to Michael. "After all this time, you still stab your friends in the back! Well, not me," he says, struggling to remove his bulletproof vest and shirt.

Franklin and Patrick stand there quietly, spectating.

"T that's not necessary," says Michael.

"No," argues Trevor, "I want you to see what it means to be a friend."

Everyone stares at the nasty-looking bruise on Trevor's chest left from the blunt force trauma of being shot by Alyson.

"See, Michael, this is what it looks like when you defend somebody you care about!" states Trevor gesturing to his injury.

"I've got shot before!" exclaims Michael.

"That's bullshit, and you know it!" stakes Trevor, "The last time you got shot was for your own selfish needs. Unlike you, I took a bullet with a greater purpose than saving my own ass!"

Michael hangs his head in shame. He knows his friend has a point.

Patrick voices his opinion. "Obviously, you're referring to a past incident one I'm not familiar with nor care to be, but I would hardly say that Michael or, for that matter, any of your actions done today were out of selfishness. You all joined together to save someone you really care about."

Franklin chimes in, "This dude is right. You two need to stop bringing up past shit. We took down a crazy chick without being killed or getting caught in the process. Job well fucking done. Now, let's call it a night 'cause my ass could use some sleep."

"I'm pretty tired myself," admits Trevor collecting his shirt and vest off the ground.

"The least I can do is call you a cab," says Michael.

"Nah, man, I got it," says Franklin, "since our last "job," I bought the cab company." He dials the dispatcher. "Yo, Raul, can you send a cab to Portola Drive in Rockford Hills? Appreciate it." Franklin embraces Michael. "Man, it's been good looking out for you. I wish I could say, "Let's do it again."

Michael chuckles. "I honestly hope we fucking don't."

The cab driver honks outside the gate.

"Rides here," says Franklin. He looks at Patrick. "Nice meeting you, dude; you're all right by me."

Franklin and Trevor get in the cab, and Michael and Patrick watch as it takes off.

"Let's head inside," says Michael holding open the front door, "Tracey will be happy to see you."

"I'm sure your wife will be happy to see you as well."

"I seriously doubt that. Lately, Amanda and I have been fighting to the point I've been sleeping in Tracey's room. Now that you're here, I've resorted to sleeping on the couch."

"Oh, I sense your wife will have a change of heart in light of recent events."

Both men part their separate ways, with Patrick ascending upstairs to Tracey's bedroom and Michael going to the living room. The professor does his best to keep quiet, not wanting to wake Tracey. She stirs in bed, hearing her bedroom door creak open.

"Mom, is that you?"

Amanda had been checking on a distraught Tracey throughout the night. Her daughter had been crying fearfully for her fiancé's safety. So much so she cried herself to sleep.

"No, it's me, Patrick. Go back to sleep; I didn't mean to wake you."

He enters the bedroom, closing the door behind him. The professor makes his way to the bed, nearly tripping over the things scattered throughout the floor.

Tracey shoots awake, turning on a lamp on the nightstand. "Patrick!" She holds him tight in a loving embrace. "I was so worried."

"It's all right. I'm here now," assures Patrick.

Tracey gets a sinking feeling. "Where's daddy? Is he all right?"

"Your father's fine; he's downstairs in the living room."

Tracey gets the feeling Patrick isn't telling her something.

"Something's wrong. What aren't you telling me? Are you hurt? Is daddy hurt?"

"No, no, we're both fine." Patrick isn't sure how to tell her about Trevor. "Your, I guess, uncle? Uh, however, was unfortunately injured."

"Injured? Injured how?"

Patrick decides it's best to come out and say it. "He was... shot."

"Oh my God! Alyson shot uncle Trevor?! Is he dead?"

"Calm down; you didn't let me finish. Your - Trevor was intelligent enough to wear a vest, so aside from a bruise the size of Texas, he's unharmed."

A wave of relief washed over Tracey. "What about Alyson?"

Patrick lay back on the bed, inviting Tracey to cuddle with him. She nestled into his chest. He kissed the top of her forehead.

"We never have to worry about her ever again."


Michael went to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. After the night he had, he figured he'd earned it. However, when he gets the bottle of whiskey, he finds a note taped to it.

Darling,

Assuming you weren't shot and killed by that chick, I'm glad you're alive able to read this note. I wanted to say, "I'm sorry." I admit I was being petty and resentful towards you. If Jimmy can forgive and forget what you did to him, then so can I. Please come upstairs and sleep in the bed next to me where you belong.

Love, Amanda

Michael laid the note on the counter. He uncapped the whiskey, poured himself a drink, and tossed it back.

"Shot and killed, huh?"

"Michael?"

Amanda turns on a light in the bedroom. He's lying next to her atop of the covers.

"Why are you dressed like that?"

He was still wearing Patrick's clothes. "Got your note," Michael says, holding it up.

"I hoped you would. I know you drink when you're stressed."

"Really? Let's defer to the note, "Darling, Assuming you weren't shot and killed... You thought she would shoot me?"

"I prayed she wouldn't!" Amanda gets defensive. "Robbing a bank and going after a stalker are two different things. When you go out robbing, I know you'll be back because that's what you're best at, but when you went after that crazy woman, I didn't know if you would come back alive or not. You're a cheater and a liar and a bank robber. But you are also a husband and a father. Michael, I don't want to wonder what it's like to live without you!"

Michael pulled his wife close. "You don't have to, baby. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."


Author's Note: Without giving away spoilers, the character of Alyson will NOT be making any more appearances in future chapters. She has met her fate. A character says a cliché line ("We never have to worry about her ever again"), but I didn't do it for dramatic effect to reel in more readers. I did it because it is a plain fact.