Too, too easy!
The moment he had finished his phone call to Nadir, Erik had left for Christine's apartment. There were things she needed...things of her own that would help ease her into her new...situation.
It had taken mere seconds for Erik to gain entry. A simple slip up the fire escape, a moment to coax open the window. That was it.
He frowned. Christine had been far too exposed. Imagine! Practically any old lunatic could have wandered in off the streets...
How fortunate that she had her Erik, now!
...
Christine rolled onto her side, her head sinking into the pillow like a bird in a nest. Blissful, absolutely blissful...beds really do seem to get more comfortable when you're tired.
Tired. She had been tired.
Why was that exactly?
Her eyes snapped opened and she gasped.
...
Erik's first thought was that the room was monastic.
Christine's apartment was simple, to the point of spare. Perhaps that was to be expected in a room of this size...ninety, perhaps one hundred square feet. Erik felt as if he could reach out in any direction and touch the wall.
How cloistered his little sparrow was!
The furniture was mismatched, obvious thrift store cast-offs, consisting almost entirely of a twin bed, a small wooden dresser, and a laminate folding table.
Erik ran his fingers over the scuffed particleboard dresser and his lip curled in distaste. A slim volume had been placed under one of the feet, presumably to offset an unfortunate tilt. Curious, Erik gently slid the book out with his toe. The Elements of Style by Strunk and White.
Erik quickly nudged the book back into place. There was something poisonous here, something lurking among the cheap furniture and plaster walls. Some long forgotten aura that caused his hands to clench and the bile to slowly rise...
Ah.
The Paris apartment.
Memories suddenly clawed at him. Those dingy, dark little rooms he had shared with his mother...their furniture had been cast offs as well, broken, intended to be fixed but neglected and forgotten. His own bed, a second hand army cot, had tilted to one side, and one long metal spine had jutted down the center and bruised his back when he was foolish enough to sleep on it.
It had been the bane of his childhood that they be surrounded by such unlovely things, but it was a secret he kept to himself. No sense in tormenting his mother, no more than usual, anyway. She cried too much as it was - over him, over her dead husband, over French rudeness, over a burned omelet...
Erik hissed, and he dug his fingernails into his arm until they were wet with blood.
...
Christine eased herself up and gingerly swung her legs over the side the bed. Her bones ached, and her joints creaked in protest. The remains of the poison must still be circulating in her veins.
Bastard.
When she put her weight on her feet, she stumbled, her knees seemingly having forgotten how to bend. She landed heavily into the side of a wooden chest of drawers, the edge of the marble top slamming into the bottom of her ribcage.
Damn him!
Christine clutched at her side, hot throbs of pain pulsing under her fingers. Still, she hadn't fallen...the splayed fingers of her left hand held a death grip on the polished marble surface and she gritted her teeth, hoisting herself up with her elbow.
The door was right in front of her.
She lurched toward the golden door knob, and it turned easily in her hand. A bark of laughter burst through her lips. It was unlocked!
Christine threw the full force of her weight behind the door and it swung wide.
She was greeted with sparkling sinks, a cavernous tub, and a gleaming porcelain commode.
A bathroom?
...
A second, more discriminating glance showed that the thrift store furniture was the only similarity with Erik's childhood home. Where the Paris apartment was the embodiment of neglect, Christine's apartment was clean.
No dust, no dirt, everything put away and tidy. Organized.
Erik nodded approvingly. Though he himself did not hold with organization, it was a trait he admired in others.
The furniture, though cheap, was well cared for, polished and free of dust.
The bed was neatly made, a handmade blue quilt folded carefully at the foot. Erik briefly examined the crooked, uneven stitching. No doubt it was a family treasure.
There were no tacky decorations, no day-glo colors or witty posters which seemed so typical of women's decor. Only a handful of simple, well used, and well loved objects.
The room had dignity, if nothing else.
...
Christine stumbled back to the bed, her search of the bathroom turning up nothing more than some very expensive soap.
She flopped heavily onto her stomach, berating herself for the relief she found in the plush satin fabric.
I could sleep for days...
No, she thought. That's the chemicals talking. You're stronger than this, Christine. You have to be!
Now roll the hell over and sit up.
...
The surface of the dresser held very few objects. A mirror, which Erik quickly flipped over. A small wooden box, which he peered into curiously. A twenty dollar bill, a pair of silver earrings...and a necklace.
The chain was tarnished in spots, the gold plate flaking off from years of wear. A small crucifix dangled next to a thick wedding band. Cheap, dime store quality stuff - hardly the sort of chic accessory he expected of Christine.
It quickly found its way into his pocket.
...
Christine couldn't quite believe her eyes.
There was a thick white envelope, laying innocently on the glistening marble of the dresser top, patiently waiting for her attention.
She launched herself at it.
My Dear Miss Daae,
I hope you have slept well. I suspect that you may not be feeling very charitable towards me as you read this, but please rest assured that you are in no danger here. You have no better nor more respectful friend in the world than myself. You are alone at present - I have gone out to inspect your apartment and to bring back anything you might need. Please make yourself at home until I return.
Yours sincerely,
Erik.
Christine shrieked, and tore the paper to shreds.
...
Pride of place on Christine's dresser was a photograph. A man and a girl. The man was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved shirt, his smile broad, his arms wrapped around a ridiculously angelic looking child. The girl was grinning wildly, leaning into her father, her blue eyes sparkling with laughter.
Erik gently touched his fingertip to her rosy cheek, and was almost surprised when it met only cold glass.
...
Hot, wild adrenaline licked through Christine's limbs like fire. She ran to the wall and began beating it with the palm of her hand.
There must be another door!
Christine felt with her fingertips for crevices, seams, anything to indicate an exit from the bleak wood paneled room. She crept along one wall, then the next, then the next. She doubled back, tracing along the baseboards, then again, reaching as high as she could, dusting the tops of the crown molding.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!
...
Erik tore his eyes from the photograph. Enough. He was here for a reason. Might as well make a start.
Erik carefully set his leather satchel on the bed, zipping it open in preparation for the clothes.
A feral grin suddenly broke over his mouth.
Now, he thought, where would Christine keep her underwear...
...
She was going to die. She sat rocking on the bed, laughing and crying all at once. There was no door, and she was going to die here, alone, at the hands of a masked, lunatic murderer.
There was nothing she could do to stop it.