I am estimating that this story will now go through Chapter 26. Just to repeat the warning in Chapter 1, this story is going to be a bit dark to the end.

Thanks to all who reviewed and favorited!

Months later...

"Five." His earpiece spoke to him.

"So, Mr. Porter, I think you will find that this supply is of the absolute purest quality."

"Four."

"I'll be the judge of that. You'll get the rest of your money later."

"Three."

"I see you are a wise man, Mr. Porter. You do not simply believe what others tell you, do you?"

"Two."

"Hell no. I wouldn't have gotten this far by being an idiot."

"One."

"Really? You have fooled all of us then." A sinister pause. "Goodnight, Mr. Porter."

"What?" The bearded man glared and started to reach into his black leather jacket for a gun. But he was far, far too slow.

He stepped back and slid into the shadows as the police descended on the very wanted criminal, their pistols drawn. Mr. Porter screamed a variety of obscenities as he was thrown to the concrete ground and his hands were cuffed behind his back.

Perhaps in earlier times, he might have found the scenario entertaining. Instead, as he walked away, he felt highly indifferent.

True to his word, for once, he saved the city.

Perhaps reorganized was the better word.

It kept his mind busy, and the tasks were somewhat entertaining. He knew the trade well for he had operated on the other side of it for many years. Often, he was a spy. He'd pretend to be interested in making a drug deal or operating a money laundering scheme, infiltrating organized crime circles. He certainly looked shady enough for the part. Occasionally, he was an extra physical force, or he could use his voice and fast reflexes to torment and distract. There were rumors of a phantom man, but no one ever discovered whom he was. Nadir always handled the arrests and kept his identity under wraps. And always made sure he was financially compensated. He did rather well for himself on several fronts. Of course, Nadir received public credit, but he preferred it that way. He did not want to be a hero.

He would always be a ghost. These tasks simply kept him…occupied.

The last thing he needed was to dwell on her, although even on the busiest of days he couldn't really help it. It took a full month for the ache to dull even slightly, a month where he'd often disappear to obscure locations, holding his head in his hands and reminding himself of reasons to keep going. Aside from occasional business meetings with Nadir, he remained in solitude. Music was his only real companion and probably the only way he stayed somewhat sane. Still, a sense of recklessness would sometimes come upon him.

Late one night, purely on a strange impulse, he had walked unnoticed into an upscale bar, sat down at the grand piano, and begun to play. He played even as people began to stand and gather around him, murmuring in wonder and curiosity as his fingers flew up and down across the keys. It had been somewhat invigorating, holding their rapt attention, as though he held power over the entire room. That is, until he'd found a poor quality video online the next morning with over five thousands hits and the caption: "Mysterious pianist at bar! You gotta listen to this! Wow!" Below that were comments speculating about his identity.

He'd shuddered and berated himself. If he ever brought that much attention to himself again, his face would eventually end up plastered all over the web and television screens. In this modern world, it was inevitable. No, the only way his music could thrive was through the hands or, preferably, voice of another. Maybe he'd publish some of it eventually. Probably not.

Unable to help himself, he watched for news of her. Perhaps she had picked up with her career again, he hoped. It did not matter if he was the one profiting off of it; he simply wanted her to sing. But there was nothing, not a word of Christine Chagny.

Forget her.

As the crime rate plummeted, he began to have the nagging feeling that it was again time to move on, an itch that needed to be scratched. An old business contact eventually got in touch with him. A multi-millionaire in Brazil wanted a high tech security system to keep the criminal riffraff away. It seemed like a simple intellectual project that would occupy his mind and time. And get him out of this godforsaken country.

"I am leaving," he told Nadir over drinks one night. They sat in the corner of a darkened pub, the only other patron an old man who was half slouched over the table, obviously well past his limit. "I think I have done all I want to do here."

"How about one last mission?" Nadir asked. "And then, yes, I think I can handle the rest."

"Fine. One more for the road, old friend."

"I could always use your help," Nadir replied. "But you have certainly done your share. Crime rates are down to record lows. You're really a-"

"If you say it, I will strangle you. And why ruin a perfectly good evening with murder, m?"

"All right. I understand." Nadir paused and lowered his voice. "So where are you heading?"

"As though I would tell you the details. A new project."

"I trust it's not entirely wholesome?"

He shrugged. "It's rather neutral, actually. Something to keep me busy for a while. Mental stimulation, if you will."

"Well, enjoy yourself then. Thank you for coming back here."

"I trust you won't follow me?"

"Never," Mr. Khan replied with a slightly tipsy grin. Nadir's face became serious again. "I really do wish the best for you."

"I am sure you do."

He wondered if he would spend the rest of his life attempting to avoid all thoughts of Christine.

Perhaps from the second he had first heard her voice, he had sensed it. Why else had he taken her under his dark wing for all those months, wasting valuable time on someone who was obviously not going far with a singing career? There were thousands of easier ways to make a profit. There were a thousand other ways to make art. If he'd wanted collectible art, he could have stolen a couple of paintings from the nearest museum. And yet he had fooled his mind into thinking he only had financial reasons for helping her.

No, the true ulterior motive had been entirely more disturbing.

It had been the only way to become close to her.

He had admitted it all to himself far too late. She had forever altered him, and he hated that fact at times—even if he could not hate her.

He would never be normal; life had seen to that. But, where Anne had failed, Christine had perhaps succeeded. Because Anne had pitied him, and he had viciously thrown that unwanted sentiment back into her face. But Christine—she had felt something else. He had seen it in her eyes-

Something he could not throw back at her because he wished to hang onto it.

Even if he still was not entirely sure what it was.

Very pathetic but true.

Perhaps he would feel more like his old self when their distance spanned countries and continents.

The carpet of the Chagny house was cold beneath her bare feet as she slowly walked into the bathroom. Lifting her head, she briefly stared at her reflection.

She then filled a paper cup of water half-full. Christine looked down at the ripples before popping open the translucent reddish brown container. Turning it to the side, she shook one of the small capsules into her hand. She tossed the flavorless white pill into her mouth and swallowed. It traveled down easily.

That would get her through another day. It had for the past two months. The pretty shrink had barely spent thirty minutes talking with her before finally saying, "Let me make you out a prescription. We'll see how it goes before we decide to change the dosage. Now let me go over a few of the side effects with you…."

So far, she hadn't increased the dosage. But she was considering making an appointment to do just that. They clouded her head a bit, but the psychiatrist assured her that would improve with time. You'll feel just like normal soon….

What was normal anyway?

"Good morning," she said as she walked into Raoul's room. Sometimes she slept beside him. Other nights, she felt like sleeping alone. "Do you want me to open a window?"

"Good morning, sweetheart," he said, his voice hoarse from sleep. "Nah. It always seems too bright in here. Maybe the direction the room faces."

She'd given up trying to argue with him over daylight. His mother nagged everyone enough for both of them. "All right, then." Christine smoothed out the comforter and sat down beside him on the bed, and they watched the local news.

A murder. Three car accidents. Corruption in the school district. Warm temperatures. Beware of the pollen count. And an uplifting story about a golden retriever taking care of an abandoned kitten.

Theresa brought up breakfast, two bowls of oatmeal with dried fruit and brown sugar sprinkled on top. At least her mother-in-law was a decent cook. These days, she occasionally scowled at Christine or made a slightly passive aggressive comment but generally kept her mouth shut. And while Christine had more or less moved into the Chagny home, their old house had still not been rented out. Theresa had "never gotten around to it."

Raoul had warned his mother. Phillip had warned her. And Christine really didn't do anything offensive now anyway. There were no more singing lessons, concerts, and parties. She compliantly read, watched television, and fiddled around on the computer. She played the piano when Raoul requested it. Sometimes she'd go read in her favorite café. The barista knew her by name.

Another children's theatre production was coming up, Snow White, and they wanted her to be the accompanist. Raoul had urged her to be a part of it. Still, Christine was wondering if she should get some sort of practical degree and find a real job. Maybe she could be a bookkeeper or a paralegal. Spreadsheets and paperwork might bring in more money than music. Still, the accompanist position was tempting. At least it'd get her out of the house.

"We should go out to dinner." She said this every week.

"Maybe," Raoul would reply.

They'd been out a couple more times until an incident three weeks ago. While they were at a Chinese restaurant, right in the middle of cracking open their fortune cookies, Raoul had run into some old friends from high school. They'd been perfectly nice, but the tension had been terrible. "What have you guys been up to?" Christine had asked to be polite. Raoul was barely able to look them in the eye.

"Oh, you know. Heh. Just got back from our annual hiking trip in the Appalachians."

"How'd it go?" she asked.

"Not great," the guy lied. "Rained a lot. Muddy. Heh."

Raoul had often been a part of that trip in prior years. His old friends were unable to hide the clear sympathy in their eyes.

She didn't tell him: They would feel less sorry for you if you didn't seem so miserable.

Words only hurt; they didn't make things better.

The physical therapists came less often. The most progress that Raoul could now make without turning to very experimental medicine was gaining strength in his arms and torso. But he would probably never walk. With the help of the occupational therapist, he learned enough to get through everyday tasks such as dressing and bathing. Learning to drive might come next, although Theresa fretted over the idea.

Generally, he did just enough to get by. So did she.

She floated.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. He knew about the pills and was on his own antidepressant.

"I'm good," she said, not wanting to talk about it. It made her feel weak that she needed them, even though that was ridiculous. Lots of people required a little help, the shrink had assured her. Maybe it was the fact that…he had never wanted her on them. "You?"

"Just fine. You're here." He smiled at her, his face very pale and drawn. Raoul looked at least ten years old than he was.

"So…let's go outside today," she urged. "Please. It's so nice out. The sunshine will do us both some good." He hesitated, but she finally convinced her husband to go into the backyard with her. He squinted in the daylight, and she shielded his eyes with a cupped hand, wishing she'd grabbed some sunglasses for both of them.

"Isn't this better?" she asked, admiring some of Theresa's flowers and palm trees. Her mother-in-law was a somewhat decent gardener, which was more than Christine could claim to be.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is. Thanks, Chris. You always know best."

That was how she had to be with him, gently beg and cajole.

Because if she became upset and tried to force him into anything, the same pattern would always follow. Raoul would apologize and promise to try harder. Sometimes they would cry together. And he would try, for a day or two. He'd go with her for a walk down the street or out to eat at a restaurant. But he looked so utterly miserable when they ran into a friend or when a curious child would glance at him or when an attractive man would step out of his way to hold the door open for her. It was hard to put Raoul through that. She felt her heart break with sorrow for him during these situations. And so she'd finally stopped the cycle by not pushing anymore.

There was one day about a month ago when she had almost left-after another fight about moving out of his parents' house. Christine had even dangerously texted Anne for the first time in weeks. "I can't stand this anymore!" she had cried to Raoul. "I feel trapped here!" But he had apologized profusely, the grief evident in his kind blue eyes, and Anne's return text had given her no news. They had embraced and made up, Raoul stating that he would die without her…that she was the only thing good remaining in his life. And so she had stayed.

After their stroll outside together, Christine left the Chagny home and walked around the nearest mall for a few hours. Nothing caught her attention. Clothes held little interest except when she'd been dressing up for performances. She looked at the glass cases in a chain jewelry store. Raoul had told her to pick out a new ring, any one she wanted no matter what the cost. He'd been a little distraught over the other ring's absence but had believed her explanation that she had no idea what had happened to it. Maybe she'd lost some weight from her depression, and it had slipped off? In any case, she browsed over the selection for a bit before deciding that none of them quite matched what she wanted.

She purchased a warm pretzel with salt and a diet soda. Christine sat on a bench next to an elderly man in an old-fashioned black hat. He smiled and nodded at her. She nodded back.

Glancing at her phone, she noticed that Anne had called. That had been the fourth time in the last few weeks. She'd been avoiding Anne's calls. There had only been the one exchange of texts in that desperate moment.

"Have you heard from him? Do you know where he is?"

"No, dear. Nothing. But how are you?"

"Fine."

It was cruel to ignore her calls. Anne had been nothing but good to her. It was just that seeing or talking to Anne would remind her of other things.

I'm starting to become someone I really don't like.

Christine put her phone into her purse and stared at the tiles. There was still only one ray of hope that she could see.

They had to get out of his parents' house. It wasn't only about Theresa any longer. They needed to be independent. Otherwise, there was nothing-nothing but the beautiful gilded prison that was the Chagny home. Maybe she could bargain with him. If we get out, we'll find a way to have a baby. He seemed to still want children.

It was hard to even grasp the idea. But she supposed a little girl or boy would give her another reason to get up in the morning. Yes. Yes, a bright and smiling child to chase around the house and cuddle. Rosy cheeks and baby giggles and soft blonde hair. Maybe it did make sense, she tried to convince herself, grasping at slippery straws.

An older woman emerged from a department store. The old man stood and said, "I thought you'd be in there until next Christmas."

The woman playfully responded, "You're the one who wanted to tag along."

"Someone has to make sure you don't bankrupt us."

They continued their banter, and a tear rolled down Christine's cheek as they strolled away together. That was how she had once pictured her and Raoul—growing old together in that way.

There was no other option but to try and march forward. Any change had to be better than this limbo.

Several days later, Christine asked Phillip out to lunch. A waitress set small cups of chicken noodle soup in front of them, little carrots and pieces of celery floating prettily in the broth. Purple flowers sat in the middle of the table. Their waters had lemon wedges on the rim. Phillip chuckled. "This is definitely a chick restaurant."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't take us to a sports bar."

He shrugged and took a sip of soup. "No big deal. There aren't any major games on today." He smirked, and she knew he was teasing. At least he kind of liked her again.

After they'd both eaten a little, she began, "So I think you're the only one who can help me."

"What with?" He glanced up. While he'd started to trust her more over the last months, he was still cautious.

"Do you agree that Raoul is…that this is always how it's going to be? He's not going to walk?" It was still hard to say it out loud.

Phillip sighed. "Yeah, probably. Unless there's a miracle breakthrough soon."

"Right." She paused. "So there's no reason to stay at your parents' house anymore, right? We're literally waiting for absolutely nothing."

"Yeah. I guess that's about right."

"Phil, we have to get out of there." She desperately spread out her open palms in front of her. "We have to live on our own, or we're just going to rot away at your parents' house. I feel like I'm going crazy. I'm on meds. I—" She choked and put her face in her hands to compose herself. "I'm sorry."

"I know," he replied, giving her an awkward pat on the arm. "I mentioned that to Raoul the other day."

"You did?" she whispered, looking up.

"Yeah. At first, I didn't trust you to stick around. But you have. So it's time to move forward."

"What did he say?"

"He very reluctantly agreed. But we have to pull him out of this comfort zone. You're right. I'll help where I can."

"Thank you, Phil."

It was the first bright spot in months. Maybe years.

Phillip would help deal with Theresa. And so she just had to work on Raoul, which would be no easy task.

He always looked so sad that her heart broke and her anger dissipated, thereby destroying her motivation to push him. She had never been much of a fighter.

She had failed to save her father. Now she was failing to save her husband.

She made a terrible hero.

But something had to change before she sank feet first into a bottomless pit of despair. Maybe this would be the answer. They could move back into their old house.

And then…then everything would be as it had been before….

Anne Giry was about to lose her mind.

Because she had already lost everyone else.

Erik was gone.

Christine was gone.

And now Meg was gone.

Erik always disappeared like some sort of unholy ghost. That was no surprise, especially after….

But losing Christine's friendship had been painful. The girl refused to even talk to her now. Although Anne had her suspicions as to why.

But for her only daughter to now run away? Anne's heart was broken.

She'd checked with Meg's friends and her boyfriend, but they were of little help. Meg had probably told them horrible things about her 'evil' mother. Anne called the police, but they correctly suspected that this was a runaway and not a kidnapping. They'd probably stuck Meg into some database and left her there along with thousands of other wide-eyed girls who were either dead or living in the country's cracks and crevices.

Anne barely remembered how the argument had started, likely over something stupid like curfew or school grades. And then Meg had suddenly accused her of ruining her childhood and chasing her father away. "I hate you!" she had screamed. "You ruined my life, and I hate you! So leave me alone!" The next morning her daughter, a pillow, and a red duffel bag were gone.

Meg wasn't stupid, but she wasn't exactly street smart either. Who knew what she could get herself into out there? The worry and anxiety ate at Anne's heart over the next weeks. She'd been trying to get in contact with Christine for some support or ideas, but she'd had no success.

Anne rarely ever drank. But, that evening, she poured herself a glass of cheap red wine from the local grocery store and sank down into an arm chair. Life weighed heavily upon her shoulders. Hadn't she always tried to do the right thing? Didn't she always try to help others and put herself last? So why was she in this horrible position now?

With no one.

Finally, her phone beeped. Hoping desperately that it was either her daughter or Christine, Anne grabbed it and glanced down.

The number was blocked. The message said, "Is all well in Anne's world? Leaving the country again. Will see you in…a year? A decade? A century? One never knows, right? Farewell."

Anne softly gasped. With a shaking hand, she quickly texted, "Need help." She pressed "send" but received no response back. She added, "Please. Meg ran away. I'm heartbroken."

Ten minutes ticked by, and Anne wondered if he'd thrown the phone away after sending his first message. That was something she imagined he'd do in his disturbing lines of work. He wouldn't want to ever be traced.

"Help me," she added. "Please."

And then-then she texted something that she shouldn't have. Whether she only did it to lure him back there, Anne never knew. It was merely an impulse.

But it changed everything.

"Christine asked where you were."

She pressed send. Her heart jumped, and her stomach turned.

Why did I do that?

Well, it was the truth, wasn't it? Why shouldn't he know?

Still, Anne received no response. Erik had again disappeared into the ether without a trace. She went to bed, feeling increasingly hopeless as she cried herself to sleep that night.