It was times like this that she realized how sad her life was. Everyone around her was talking happily, their voices hushed but busy and friendly, and she stood off by herself, awkwardly looking around and trying to pretend like she didn't care that she didn't have friends. It was probably better that she didn't, as she was a horrible friend, but…still. Sometimes she was very lonely, especially now, standing in a big crowd with no one to talk with.
They were staging Elektra. It was coming on fast, and the nerves and the excitement was running rampant through the entire cast and crew. The opera ran through their veins, and even Christine, who had never actually performed in one, was feeling anxious and eager to put on a show.
That's what she was trying to concentrate on at the moment. It would all be worth it in a few weeks—all of the standing off to the side by herself and the silent endurance of Carlotta Guidicelli's little temper tantrums. Christine watched center stage idly. Ms. Guidicelli had been upset about the spotlight, which was apparently too bright for her. So they had had to send a lights technician running all the way up to try to dim it. And now Carlotta was stalking around the stage impatiently, loudly wondering why she was wasting her time standing around when she needed to be rehearsing.
Christine rolled her eyes a little and looked upward into the endless ceiling with a little sigh. Her feet and back were extremely sore, as she had been standing nearly all day, and she was hungry as well. However, she was still the newest member of the company, and she hadn't earned the right to complain to anyone, so she kept her mouth shut. And…it wasn't as if she had anyone to complain to, either.
A group of sopranos giggled and gossiped in a corner, and she glanced over at them, feeling a little jealous of their friendship. She supposed that she should go over and properly introduce herself. Wasn't that what she was taught in high school? She had to be the instigator in a friendship. But when she looked at them again, she felt extremely intimidated, and so she kept her place, out of the way of the stage crew, who were carrying things on and off the stage constantly.
It'll be worth it, she told herself firmly, watching Carlotta snap at the stage manager. Opening night will make this all worth it.
The sopranos near her suddenly all broke out into loud, high-pitched squeals of laughter, and Christine looked over at them quickly. Her gaze traveled to a small cluster of men, and one of them smiled at her as she caught his eye. Without thinking, she smiled back, wanting to be friendly. Then she realized that it was the baritone who had grinned at her before. Quickly, she looked away, blushing to her roots.
Out of her corner of her eye, she saw him move away from his group, and she had a spasm of internal panic.
Don't come here, don't come over here, don't, please, she desperately chanted in her mind.
Thankfully, before he reached her, someone else did.
"Hey," Meg Giry said, sounding a little breathless and looking flushed. "How's rehearsal up here going?"
"Fine," Christine lied. At that moment, the spotlight on Carlotta flared brightly—probably as a joke by the light technician—and Carlotta began a loud tirade, yelling a mixture of Spanish and English.
Meg wrinkled her nose at the sight. "She's terrible. I mean, her voice is good and everything, but she's got a big attitude I think."
"Hmm," Christine said noncommittally. She had decided to stay far away from Carlotta Guidicelli, and that also meant leaving no chance of the Spanish diva hearing about gossip and rumors and slandering behind her back by Christine. That would lead to trouble, and if her part was taken away again, she didn't even want to think about what Erik would do. He had already burned down a great deal of the Opera House.
The sections that were rebuilt were obvious, though it appeared as though they had tried to build them to blend in. Still, the paint and the molding were a little too fresh, a little too clean, and because of this Christine was able to see the extent of the damage. The fire had spread over more space than she had realized.
"That guy over there, Peter," Meg said, nodding to a place behind Christine. She looked back and saw that it was the baritone, though he had rejoined his group. "He's been glancing at you. He's nice—he went out a few times with my friend. You should talk to him. I think he likes you."
Christine laughed nervously, sounding stupid, and then felt her cheeks sting a little. "Yeah. Maybe." Could they not see the ring on her finger? Still…she supposed that it wasn't that uncommon anymore for girls to wear rings on their left hand while unmarried. And her ring lacked diamonds. It looked like a plain band. But—still. Another man interested in her was dangerous, and not just for him.
"Anyway, I came over to talk to you about something," Meg continued, suddenly sounding somewhat nervous. Christine frowned.
"What about?"
"Do you think this'll last for a couple more minutes?" Meg said, nodding to a forcefully-gesticulating Carlotta onstage.
"Definitely," Christine said.
"Let's go over here, then," Meg said, leading the way out of the backstage area and into one of the back hallways. "I'm on break too and don't have a lot of time."
They went over to a small, empty hall, and Christine watched as Meg glanced left and right to ensure that no one was around.
"Are you okay?" Christine asked, feeling nervous herself.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Meg said, frowning a little. "I'm just—well, I need to talk to you, but I'm not really sure how to start."
Christine felt her stomach seize up a little. Meg's tone was indicative of something bad. What was she going to say? Christine tried not to let her childishness spring forth, but instantly the thought came that Meg would tell her that they couldn't be friends anymore. Maybe somehow Erik was angry that Christine had a friend, and he had somehow intervened, and…
"What is it?" Christine said, forcing her stiff jaw to work. "Just tell me."
"I'm just going to start off by saying that none of this is from me. This is all just stuff I've heard. I would never even think that, okay? So please don't get mad at me. I know you wouldn't. You're too nice."
"You're making me nervous," Christine admitted, trying to laugh a little. "What is it?"
Meg shifted her weight from one ballet slipper to the next several times before she looked up at Christine and said: "There're…like, rumors going around the Opera House lately. About you."
"What?" Christine croaked. "What about me?"
"Well—I'm so sorry, Christine—but some people think that you're cheating to get your roles."
Christine stared, completely dumbfounded, her stomach dropping.
"I mean, I guess it's only natural," Meg said hurriedly, her cheeks turning a bright pink. "You're brand new, and you get a role in your first production, and then you get another role in your second production. And then there was that whole…fire thing the night your role got switched."
Christine paled and then spluttered, "I didn't—do they think I—?"
"No—I don't know!" Meg said. "I just heard my mom talking to the managers the other day. I guess there's this whole thing with the Ghost—like he was forcing them to cast you. But he's not real, so the managers are thinking that you're the one doing it all and you're just pretending to be the Ghost so you can get the roles you want and not get caught."
"No! No, I didn't! That's awful! I would never do that!" Christine was spouting off protests, hurt and anger and shock radiating through her frame.
"I know, Christine," Meg said. "It just…all looks a little suspicious, you know? The Ghost hasn't ever really done anything huge like this. Mostly he just tweaks with the music or the set design or something. But I don't think anybody actually really believes he exists. Everyone knows it's usually just a musician or the stage crew that does things like that, and then we all blame it on the Ghost. It's like a fun silly game, you see? So then this happens, and it's scary. And then there was that huge fire, and…It's just gotten a little out of control, I guess. Mom said that the managers are probably going to get the police involved."
"But I didn't do anything!" Christine said desperately, knowing how pathetic she sounded. "I swear I didn't! I don't know anything. I would never force anyone to give me a part. Never!"
"I'm sure there's not enough evidence to even really charge you with anything," Meg said, trying to be consoling but only making Christine feel worse. "But I'd be careful, okay? I'm just giving you a heads-up as a friend. Look, I don't know what happened, either, but I don't think you'd resort to pretending you're the Ghost into getting a part." She actually laughed a little. "Or trying to burn down the Opera House. Listen, try not to worry too much. Maybe nothing will happen at all. I just wanted to let you know how this looks from an outsider's perspective."
"Yeah." She nodded dumbly. "Thanks."
Although she wanted so badly to go straight home and rest her aching feet, after rehearsal ended, Christine trudged the hallways and slouched into the practice room where Erik was waiting. After setting her bag down on the chair, she went over to the piano and rested her upper body onto it, putting her head in her arms.
"Rehearsal was a nightmare today," she muttered tiredly.
"Ms. Guidicelli takes many things for granted," Erik said, knowing exactly what she was complaining about.
"You don't have to tell me," she said. "She has all these amazing roles, and she doesn't even appreciate them." With a little sigh, she stood up straight, knowing that she had to talk with him about it—if he would talk with her at all. Erik had an annoying tendency to talk at her or to her, but never with her.
"Um…" she said, her frequently-used phrase that indicated she wanted to start a conversation. He took his hands from the keys and looked at her. "Yeah…" she continued stupidly. "Well, I was talking to my friend today, and she told me that…the managers think I'm pretending to be the Opera Ghost to get my roles. I mean—she said that they're talking about bringing the police in!"
He looked remarkably collected by this statement, though his right hand did flex a couple times before he said, "The managers are incompetent twits. They will be taken care of."
"No, don't," she said pleadingly. "Don't do anything to them. It looks...bad, Erik." There was a small pause, and the volume of her voice lowered. "And—and…I didn't know that you were forcing them to give me the roles." Her heart was sinking, and she turned pink with embarrassment. "I thought I had earned them," she murmured quietly, looking at the floor.
A long moment of silence followed this, and then he said, "I'm reluctant to rid you of that charming, naïve blush. This is a cutthroat business, and someone such as yourself—so very mild and innocent—does not last long. I've worked tirelessly to get you these opportunities. You need them for your career. You must get started while you're still so young. How do you think Carlotta Guidicelli snatched the Prima Donna position? Certainly not by talent!"
She looked at him again. "I'm not stupid," she said, her voice still quiet.
"I didn't say that, now did I?" he said quickly, curtly, beginning to become seriously annoyed. "Calm down and stop fretting over this. What has gotten into you today? Everything will be taken care of, just as it always has been. I've always taken care of you, haven't I?"
"Yes," she said, her mood sinking lower.
He stood from the bench and said calmly, "You'll be singing in this opera. I have ensured it. Your voice has been ready for months. Rehearsals and practice can only go so far—you need the experience." He suddenly seemed a little excited, and he walked a few rapid steps.
"There are so many things I have planned for you, and you'll accomplish everything with such talent and grace. This part is only the very beginning. After a few years of small roles, and with some concerts and galas, you will be ready to play some of the most iconic roles in all of opera history." He ticked a few off on his long fingers. "Gilda, Rosina, Manon, Musetta, Susanna…And during that time, we will further our work on your upper register and prepare you for becoming the greatest dramatic coloratura the world has ever heard. You would be the most radiant Marguerite, Christine—the world will die when they hear you in that role. The prison scene will be the end of us all."
He hummed a few bars of it, and he looked so content and excited with his plan, like a little kid eager to show off.
"But we mustn't rush anything," he then said, obviously trying to bring himself back down to earth. "You're still so young, and too much strain would damage your voice. We'll be patient, won't we? We have so much time to perfect your voice, and the end result will be the most incredible thing either of us has ever witnessed."
A bit of anxiety attacked her. Erik had said years and so much time and more time. Just how long was he planning this to continue? Forever, it seemed like. She wouldn't mind singing forever—no, that was her dream, but continuing under Erik's demanding tutelage was a troubling thought. And during that time, he would chase away every man that approached, every friend she had. Christine glanced down at the gold ring on her finger. The prospect of being alone and friendless all her life…
She then realized that Erik had begun speaking again.
"But you're silent. You look apprehensive. Is my plan unsatisfactory in some way?"
"No, it's perfect," she assured him hastily. "I'm just…overwhelmed, I guess. It seems like there's so much to do. It's—I think it's just intimidating. I don't know if I can do it all."
"The talent is there," Erik said. "You simply need to find the dedication to focus solely on your music."
There it was—she could pick it out anywhere, now. It was another subtle (or not-so-subtle) way of telling her to keep away from other men. He wanted her for himself. Needed her for himself.
This was perhaps the most frightening thing of all—more frightening than his face. Mr. Khan had told her about it, but she had refused to believe it. It had taken such a violent event to make her realize just how damaged Erik really was.
For nearly all of their relationship, she felt as if he had been a cold, silent, unfeeling, unwavering teacher, a sort of rigid and unyielding guardian to her. He had guided her effortlessly through her auditions and into the Opera House and had avenged her for every wrong thing that had been done to her. He had gotten her father and had saved her life by paying back his debts and providing her with a home. A virtuoso in all aspects she had cared to test, he had seemed like some impenetrable, unbreakable fortress, dressed up in baggy clothes and a mask. And his love for her had seemed just like the natural course of things. He was taking care of her, and the men that took care of her cared deeply about her. Even though she felt selfish and childish and painfully aware of it all, Gustave and Raoul had been devoted to her, and so was Erik.
But as she looked at him watching her with yellow eyes and a black, impersonal mask, she couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. Erik had—what had Mrs. de Chagny called it again?—baggage. And lots of it. It was obvious, and she could no longer ignore it. Vaguely, she wondered if Raoul had felt this way when he had agreed to take care of her after her father's disappearance.
She continued to muse over this as she left the Opera House sometime later. Surprisingly, Erik had not told her to come and stay with him this weekend, but she had a funny feeling that he'd want her back down before the opera opened, so she could have a few more days of intense rehearsal before performing.
She continued to make her way home, her mind so cluttered with thoughts that she barely heard the call of her name. It was only when someone took her shoulder that she realized he had shouted her name several times. She turned.
"Mr. Khan!" she said, immensely surprised.
"Miss Daae," he said, panting a little. It appeared that he had run to catch up with her, and he tugged at his collar for a minute. "How are you?"
"I'm going home," she said, gesturing over to her apartment building. "I just got out of a lesson." She then had the impression that he had been waiting for her to emerge for a while, because he cut right to the chase:
"Would you mind if we went somewhere to talk? A coffee shop? A restaurant? Anything."
She hesitated, however. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked. "He said—"
"I'll take the risk and any blame," Mr. Khan said shortly. "If you need me to, I'll say that I forced you to go with me."
Glancing around at the late afternoon, she felt her stomach twist in anxiety. Still, curiosity was beginning to rise, and she looked at Mr. Khan and said, "Sure, but as long as it has food. I'm starving."
Ten minutes later, they were in a small café, and Christine was awkwardly playing with her napkin in her lap, looking around. They were seated near the window, and she watched people passing, already wondering if this was a good idea.
Their waiter returned; he was a young man of average height with light brown hair. He was smiley and polite, and he passed Christine's food over to her with a little wink.
"I think he likes you," Mr. Khan said, watching the waiter leave.
Christine laughed, trying not to feel flattered about that. "No, he's just doing his job."
"Maybe you should leave your number on the bill and see if he gives you a call."
"No," she said, the teasing immediately gone from her voice. "That's…not a good idea."
Mr. Khan frowned a little, leaning closer to her over the table. "So he's still…?"
"Yes," she said, knowing what he meant and not needing him to say it.
There was a moment while he absorbed this information, and then he leaned back into his seat before gesturing to her with his hands. "I had no idea that he had let you go until I went down to check up on you, and he told me he had. But you came back down, and I was worried. Why did he let you go in the first place if only to insist you return?"
"Um…" She took a moment and shoved a mouthful of bread in her mouth, chewing slowly, trying to think of where to start and wondering if she could make it through the whole thing without breaking down. But Mr. Khan was waiting, and she watched him. He could probably help her find a way out of this…thing.
At last, she swallowed, and began: "After you...After I yelled at you to leave—sorry about that, by the way—"
He gave an impatient wave of his hand, clearly stating that he didn't care at all and just wanted her to continue.
"Anyway, I talked to him about it, and he told me that he had been stupid when doing drugs and that he had stopped…his job. It was nice for a while. He did magic tricks for me. It was fun. He was so good at them. And he was so nice and polite." She smiled a little, unable to help it. "He even gave me flowers. And then one night I finally figured out that he was the Ghost of the Opera House. Did you know that?"
A tight smile strained Mr. Khan's lips. "I knew it, though he has always denied it when I asked. But please, continue."
"Yeah. Well, one night we went out on another drive. It was…really nice." She looked back out of the window, watching some people, feeling melancholia coming over her suddenly. She spoke to the window for a minute, and out of her peripheral vision she saw Mr. Khan start slightly at her next words. "He touched my fingers, I remember. I think it was his way of holding my hand. It was kind of sweet, actually. And he talked about his mom."
Mr. Khan leaned forward suddenly at that. "He did? What did he say?"
She shrugged, looking back to him. "Not much. Well, nothing, really. He just said that the woman who had him wasn't even his mother. He said he didn't have a mom. It was sad. I felt bad for him. And…we did hold hands for a little bit after that. Then we went back to his house, and I…" Without warning, she choked, and pressed a hand over her eyes, trying to calm herself down. She took a deep breath and tried again. "I—" It wasn't going to come out.
Thankfully, Mr. Khan knew. "You took off his mask," he said softly.
Quickly, she nodded, gulping in some air and drinking some of the provided water. "I just…I wanted to know. It felt like we—I thought it would be okay. I really did. I cared about him, Mr. Khan. And I thought I could take…whatever it was. But I couldn't."
"That's not your fault," he said. "I've only seen his face a couple times, and I still have a hard time even imagining it."
Her eyes began to sting a little, and she wiped at them with her wrists hurriedly. "He was so angry at me. It was the scariest thing I've ever seen…I thought he was going to kill me."
"Did he hurt you?" Mr. Khan asked.
"No, not physically," she said softly, still wiping at her eyes. "He didn't hit me or anything. But he…there was blood everywhere, and…" She took a shuddering breath and leaned over the table, some tears slipping between her fingers. She had done so well in resisting any more breakdowns about unmasking him, but actually saying it aloud, telling it to another person, seemed to throw it all back on her, as if she was back down there, with Erik screaming at her, and the blood all over her.
She heard a voice then. "Hey, guys. How's everything—oh, wow, babe. You okay?"
Looking up, she was embarrassed to see the nice waiter looking at her with concern.
"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just being silly."
"She's had a recent death in the family," Mr. Khan said, his voice taking on a soft tone.
"Oh, man. That sucks. I'm really sorry. Is there anything I can get you to make you feel better?"
"No. I'm fine," she repeated.
"Okay. Well, let me know if you change your mind." He left finally, and Christine quickly dried her eyes. The cafe wasn't that big, and she had seen more than one curious glance directed toward her from the other patrons.
They both took a few minutes to eat, and Christine found that she felt hollow and a little weak, so she ate her meal gratefully. There was a lingering tension in the air, like an unresolved melody, and she tried to sort her thoughts. There were still things that she wasn't going to tell Mr. Khan. Some things were going to be kept between her and Erik.
When she was finished, she absentmindedly played with the ring on her left hand, waiting for Mr. Khan to finish. She wondered how such an ordinary-looking man had become entangled in Erik's dangerous, unpredictable life.
"Mr. Khan?" she asked quietly.
"You can call me Nadir, Christine," he said.
"Okay," she said, a smile flittering across her lips. She then said, "Why are you still around him? You told me that you worked with him but that it was a long time ago."
"I'll tell you some things if you finish your story for me," he said.
So she started up again. She told him of her fear and horror and how Erik had said that she was never going to leave him again.
"I think he knew how miserable and scared I was, because he finally told me that I was coming back up when rehearsals started again. But he's made me swear not to leave the city, and I have to visit him when he wants me to. We still have lessons, so it's not like he's let me go completely. But I'm not staying with him anymore."
Mr. Khan scratched his cheek and looked concerned. "Normally it wouldn't be that hard for me to guess his plans concerning you, but…well, I've already told you that he's never acted this way before about anyone. I don't know what he's going to do. I'm sorry."
They both sat in silence for another few minutes. Christine worried and then tried to be rational. This really couldn't go on forever…Eventually Erik would get annoyed and tired of her, and he'd stop giving her lessons. That was their deal, wasn't it? He would give her lessons until he thought she was good enough to go out on her own. But…what if he never admitted that? What if he just gave her lessons forever and ever? Her life would be a routine of music and nervous fear, and then the occasional visits to Erik and his underground house. That couldn't be her life!
Finally, she didn't want to sit in silence anymore, and she said, "Mr. Khan? Will you tell me now?"
"Oh." It appeared that he was deep in thought, and he blinked a little and then nodded. "Yes. I guess I will." The waiter then came back, and he was carrying a dessert that she hadn't ordered. He set it in front of her.
"This is on the house. Feel better, babe, okay?"
She nodded, smiling at him. "Thank you. I will." He gave her a grin, and then he left. Christine looked at the dessert. "I kind of feel bad getting this for free because we lied to him…"
Mr. Khan actually laughed then. "If anyone deserves something sweet it's you, Christine. And you look like you're going to fall over. Go ahead and eat it."
When she had started on her dessert, she listened as Mr. Khan said,
"After a time, we both left our job, and we went to England together. He was still a little messed up. Iran had really screwed with his head, and some of the people there had…Well. I tried to help him, Christine. I really thought once he was out of Iran and off all his narcotics that he could just calm down and be…normal."
"Why did you leave your jobs for England?" she asked.
Another tight smile stretched his lips. "That's another story," he said. "And it's not very pleasant. But when we were in England, I really did try to help. I encouraged him to focus on music instead of…other things. You know that he's a genius. There was a music professor at Cambridge that he had told me he had once admired, and…this was my fault. It was my fault for thinking that people would let him be. I told him that he should send this professor some of his music, to look it over. The professor was so astonished that he begged to meet him…I told him to go. I was sure that a renowned and supposedly open-minded professor would be able to see past his…peculiarities and help him keep his mind on music. But as soon as the man met Erik, the story changed. His music wasn't groundbreaking or genius or anything like he first claimed…It needed 'work.' The professor told him to go back and keep composing, sending him his finished pieces so he could look them over and make suggestions."
"This professor didn't like Erik's music just because he met him?" Christine said. She bit her lip and looked down immediately. That was a stupid question.
Mr. Khan continued. "He…well. A month after him had begun sending the man his music, there was a huge concert, celebrating a brand new piece by the Cambridge professor. You can probably guess what happened…"
Her head snapped up. "He stole Erik's music?"
Mr. Khan nodded. "Thankfully only one of his pieces was performed. I can't imagine what would have happened if more was played."
It was all clicking. The piece was one of her favorites. It had been playing during the fundraiser for Raoul's company. And Erik had been inexplicably upset when she had absentmindedly hummed it in front of him. It was his music—yet the man who had stolen it from him was still hailed as a tragic genius, with a story like Mozart's: gone too soon, leaving the world without giving it more divine music.
Mr. Khan said, "Anyway, the Cambridge professor was being hailed as 'the new Mozart' by the time the gala was through. And when Erik heard and understood what had happened…I've never seen him like that. I had to leave—I legitimately believed that he was going to kill me. I didn't see him for two weeks, and when we met up again, he looked…completely crazy—dirty and muttering to himself. I pieced together the story by the news and his half-sane comments. Erik killed the professor and destroyed his office at Cambridge, rendering everything inside either unreadable or useless. Then he went and set his apartment on fire. He wanted to make sure that no one found anymore of his music there, because if they did, they would think that it was the professor's. I'm sure you can imagine what he must feel like every time that piece is played—every time it's credited to someone else. And he had admired the professor. It was all…pretty awful for him."
"I can't believe that!" she said quietly, disbelievingly. "That's terrible!" She didn't even ask if they had gotten lawyers or the police involved in the stolen music. Erik had his own sense of justice—which more or less translated into revenge for him.
"Yes," Mr. Khan said. "He's still very…um, sensitive about that. Anyway, we only stayed in London for a few more months, and then we came here. I lost track of him for a little bit—we split up in Manhattan—and then I heard about this 'Phantom' business. It wasn't hard to put two and two together."
"Why are you still with him?" she asked for what felt like the thousandth time. "You said that he doesn't think of you as a friend. Why are you hanging around him when he's so awful to you?
Yet another humorless smile came to Mr. Khan's face. Christine wondered if he ever smiled because he was happy.
"Our relationship is very complicated. It's a big mess of saving each other's lives and then getting each other in a lot of trouble. We owe each other lots of different things. And sometimes I feel responsible for him because I brought him here and didn't watch after him." He sighed a little and rubbed his eyes before glancing at his watch. "I suppose you'll be wanting to go home now. I've kept you here for a while."
"No," she said quickly but trying not to sound too eager. "I'd like to know more. He doesn't really tell me anything about himself, so this is good. For me."
"I don't know how much more I should tell you," Mr. Khan said slowly. "I feel that there are certain things that he should tell you himself…"
"Anything else is fine," she said. "Anything at all."
Still, he seemed reluctant. "Maybe another time," he said, glancing out of the window. "It's getting dark, and you need to go home. I have a lot of things to do tonight."
She was forced to grudgingly agree, and then he insisted on walking her back to her apartment. It wasn't much farther, thankfully; she felt emotionally and physically drained.
Before she disappeared inside the complex, Mr. Khan stopped her. "Christine," he said, sounding a little hesitant. He glanced around again and then stepped closer, lowering his voice so that she was obliged to lean in to hear. "If you ever need to leave—to escape…If you ever have the faintest urge to get out, tell me. Please. I don't know what's happening, but it makes me incredibly uneasy. I've chosen to be here and to be doing this, but you haven't. You're young and deserve a real life."
A few people passed by them closely, and Mr. Khan was silent, watching them go. Christine watched them as well.
"I'll check back up on you as often as I can," Mr. Khan said. "Say the word, and I'll have you gone. Okay?"
His eyes were concerned, sincere. Christine nodded quickly. "Yeah," she then said, her voice cracking. "Yes. I will. Thanks."
They parted. Mr. Khan had given her a lot—maybe too much—to think about, and she walked into the building and made her way up to her apartment. She wiped at her eyes a little, finding that they were stinging with unshed tears.
No matter which way she looked, she could not find a happy ending for anyone.