Rehearsal went stellar as usual, with everyone in perfect rhythm and timing, not missing a mark with every corner searched. It all looked like ideal on a heist. To Morgan, everything’s perfect except for Amanda’s absence. After inquiring with Shawn, the professor expected her to be bitter at Mark, but missing rehearsal appeared odd. Having seen her last, Julie was drilled with questions of Amanda’s whereabouts by Dean and Morgan. The only person not concerned was Mark, who left his emotions and thoughts internal.

Driving back to his office, Morgan used his car phone and called a few suspect people Amanda spent time with, asking them for her location. He only came up with no’s for answers. The professor searched the number of a local dope dealer named Lance to see if she purchased any drugs from him. Morgan called Lance from the office parking lot.

“Hey man,” Lance didn’t know who was calling but gave his lazy slacker greeting.

“This is Professor Morgan Abbott from the university,” was all he needed to hear to know it was imperative. The drug dealer sat up on his couch and asked about the phone call. “I’m looking for Amanda,” followed by a pause long enough for Lance to look down at Amanda’s head cradled in his lap. The two had spent all afternoon smoking dope and watching TV. He stroked her hair, knowing she didn’t have a clue of what she missed or who was on the other end of the line.

“Have you seen her?” Morgan asked.

Lance let a pause cover the air for a moment then responded, “No, I haven’t.” Morgan requested to call him at his office if anything changed, then hung up the phone. Again, Lance stroked her hair. What have you gotten me into?

Morgan’s small office was crammed with tests, books, and more knickknacks a hoarder could ever dream. The professor planned to keep his mind busy by grading papers all evening until his phone rang. His wife informed him dinner was in the oven, followed by him going back to grading papers. A rarity for him to miss supper for work, but he had a good excuse for awaiting an update about Amanda. Another half-hour passed when he received the inevitable phone call. Morgan quickly answered and recognized Lance’s voice. He informed Morgan that he’d found her. He didn’t need the address, as he had been there several times previously, then he left campus.

The professor sped off the USC campus, only worried about young Amanda. How did I let this happen? Why do you run and hide instead of fight? Is it too late to change? On his ride to Lance’s house, he covered those questions and more. Upon arriving, the caller proceeded to walk out.

Lance’s scruffy hippie look disguised him from feeling responsible for helping her get high. “She’s in the basement,” he said, puffing on a roach.

The professor slowly walked down the narrow stairwell and recognized the scratches on the walls; it wasn’t his first trip down. With each step, dust dropped down underneath. The dimly lit light bulb slowly swung and flickered. He wanted these steps to be his last in that house.

Walking off the final stair, the professor felt his skin crawl in the near darkness as he turned the corner. Morgan barely saw Amanda lying there, hands pillowed under her head. First seeing her white top that glowed in the dark room. After taking a step forward, he bumped into discarded window bars, which made a metallic clang as it slid along the concrete floor. The girl sat up and backed into a corner.

“Don’t get any closer,” her dry, desperate voice growled.

He stepped closer, and again she warned him, this time, she jabbed a weapon in his direction.

“It’s me, Morgan.” He had his hands up and continued to step forward.

She dropped her weapon and apologized as tears rolled down her face. “I- I thought you were someone else.” He filled the gap and cradled her in his arms. She admitted to the many times she got high or missed a training session. She expressed the desire to do the right thing.

“I know,” he nodded. The weapon she jabbed rolled by his side, and he instinctively picked it up. A used syringe, classy. The girl seemed comatose but still looked cute as a button. Her grip on his sweater was like an infant’s, holding to everything not to let go. He cradled her and promised to take care of her. The girl wasn’t his daughter, but he treated her like one and vice versa. A few minutes later, her death grip eased, and she fell asleep.

Morgan toted her on a shoulder, where he carefully walked up the creaky basement steps and through the front door. Outside, an agitated Mark leaned against the fence like a lazy gargoyle. However, Lance is nowhere to be seen, smart move. The dapper-looking graduate student suspiciously carried a handgun in one hand.

“Did you get the call too?” Mark asked.

“Yeah,” Morgan said. “I guess he’s pitting us against each other now.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Mark positioned his firearm behind him, out of vision.

“Then why carry?” Morgan cleared his throat, “Listen to what I’ve taught you, be blunt with your intentions.”

“You know what must be done,” Mark put his firearm in the open, showing the world his true intentions.

“If you wanted to,” Morgan stepped forward, “then you would have done it by now.” He briskly walked past his protégée. With one hand, Morgan opened the door to his BMW and sat Amanda in the passenger seat. After buckling her up, Mark interjected.

“People with addictions are a handicap to what we do.”

Morgan turned his head back, “Are you counting yourself?”

“I’m tired of babysitting this bipolar bitch,” Mark said, though he kept his pistol below the waist. “She’s like an infant; we drag around.”

“She’s a child with no home,” Morgan fully turned back to him. “And this child should be nurtured, not put down behind a barn.”

“Please,” Mark pointed the gun towards them, “Just let me do everyone a favor. I promise it will be quick and painless.”

“Let me tell you a secret,” the professor called for him to come forward. Mark complied as Morgan closed the gap with a swift right hook. The punch dropped Mark and his gun, where Morgan swiftly grabbed it and put a foot on his pupil’s throat. The barrel pointed down towards Mark as Morgan gave him a stern warning. “Don’t you ever point a weapon at me again. You got it?”

With just a little pressure, Mark’s face turned blue, his eyes bloodshot. He tapped and let out a gargled phrase.

Should I finish him off or not? Several consequences flashed through Morgan’s mind on the pros and cons of each choice. If I did, then that would create a rift between some members, and if I didn’t, then perhaps, he’d retaliate. If not now but later Mark would have no fear showing his true colors in public.

Morgan removed his foot, dismantled the weapon, and tossed it in two separate directions. He jumped in his car and sped away.