It was a warm, bright day. Raoul had been watering the flowerbeds but the task was quickly forgotten when a blond little boy went trampling over the daisies and ran through the stream of cold water with a loud giggle.
The green hose was abandoned in the grass,water spurting from around the edges of the hastily screwed-on sprayer that he hadn't seated right.
He had only just managed to catch his mud-soaked son and swung the boy up into his arms when a sleek black car pulled in, idling near the end of the driveway.
Raoul had seen cars like it in the past and every time he did he clutched his son just a little tighter, squinting to try to make out the face of the person sat in the driver's seat. He wasn't sure why he did. He had never met the man that still haunted him and he wouldn't recognize him even if it was him.
Two men emerged from the car and his heart sank straight into his stomach when his eyes found the shiny police badge hung from the driver's neck, facing out. "Can I help you gentlemen?" he asked loudly, feet rooted to the place where he stood.
"Raoul de Changy?"
Raoul swallowed thickly, setting his son down carefully in the grass. "Go tell your mom that I said you can have a popsicle, buddy."
He waited until he could no longer hear the running footsteps of his son before he turned back to the men one hand nervously resting against the back of his neck. "That's me," he answered, finally convincing his feet to carry him toward the two men.
They met in the center of the driveway and Raoul was pretty sure he could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. "What can I do for you?"
The one wearing the badge held a paper card out and Raoul took it from him instinctively 'Detective Abdulla Orange County Sheriff.' There was a number scribbled on the card and the man didn't even have to speak for him to know exactly what was coming.
"Mr. de Changy, did you know a Christine Daae?"
Raoul was suffocating. It wasn't the name that she had given him, but there wasn't a single doubt in his mind that it was her. "What's happened to Christine?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice even as he looked at the detective
"She's passed away," the detective answered simply. "I'm afraid that I don't have any specifics but there's a phone number on the back of that card for a detective out of the Chicago PD. They're taking the lead on it and he'll be able to give you more information."
His eyes were burning. Chicago.
He had plans of his own,once. He was going to move to New York once he passed the bar, establish his own practice.
He never made it to the city.
Instead, he lived three streets from the house that she had lived in once. It sat vacant for years and he used to drive past it often, sure that one day he would catch a glimpse of her.
He never did.
Only a few years ago the property had gone up for sale and now the house was occupied by a young family.
He didn't drive past it anymore. In fact, he went out of his way to avoid it.
He didn't make it to the city because he was sure, so sure that one day she would wake up.
When she did, he wanted her to be able to find him.
"I'm not related," he said eventually. "Aren't these notifications meant for family?"
"There's no next of kin," the detective answered with half a shrug. "Your name came up in the investigation. The detective wants to speak with you."
Raoul stared at the paper card between his shaky fingers. "I don't know what help I'll be, but I'll call... was no one able to track her mother down?"
"Elizabeth Daae has been dead near twenty years," the detective answered. "We found her just fine."
Raoul's heart broke for her all over again. It wasn't what she told him. He had no way of ever knowing if she actually knew the truth. He had no way of ever knowing what bits of anything were truth or lies.
He had been composing a list of questions that he would ask her when she reappeared and just like that the opportunity was gone along with any chance at real closure.
He had been waiting years to hear of her passing. Part of him thought maybe she was already dead and he would spend the rest of his life never knowing what happened. Part of him thought that would have been for the best. There was a heavy sort of finality in actually knowing.
"How did she die?"
"I'm afraid I don't know," the detective answered, a hint of sympathy in his words. "You just call that number on the card when you're ready. They're the ones that'll have answers for you."
Raoul nodded, blinking back the tears that he suddenly felt threatening him. He tapped the paper business card against the back of his free hand nervously, not sure what he was supposed to do. "Thank you," he forced himself to say. "I - I'll make sure to give him a call."
He stood there in a daze until the black car was far out of sight and then he stood there a little longer, staring at the street corner it had disappeared around, staring at the little intersecting green street signs.
He had dropped Christine off at that exact corner once. He remembered it vividly - right under the flickering street light. He had expressed concern about it and she just waved it off with a light-hearted joke and a quick kiss. And he let her. He let her get out of the car he let her give lame excuse after lame excuse.
He had seen the random bruises on her thighs, on her wrists, and he hadn't said a word about them, not until she came to him.
By then it was already too late.
He was young and dumb and she was interesting and fun. He never mentioned it because he didn't want to chase her off.
Sometimes, if he thought about it too much, he wanted to throttle himself. When he really sat down and thought about it, he could remember seeing fear in her eyes long before she actually confessed a thing to him. He could vividly remember the way that she would tense up with him sometimes. It was rare enough that in the moment he had been able to convince himself to wave it off.
He knew that something was wrong. He knew it from the start and now,he could never apologize to her for not doing something sooner.
He ran a hand over his face firmly with a sigh.
Eventually, he made himself move, turning off the garden hose and staring over his shoulder at the street signs one last time.
Raoul sat in his office, the door locked and the shades drawn tight, staring at the business card he had been carrying around for a week, trying to tell himself that he didn't want to know.
He didn't. That was his conclusion.
He didn't want to know. He wanted to throw the card away and forget about the whole thing, convince himself that she had pulled herself out and was off on an island somewhere happily married with two and a half kids and a white picket fence.
He didn't want to know, but he needed to.
Someone needed to.
He might not have been able to save her, but he could remember her. He could care about what happened. She didn't have anyone else to.
He didn't tell his wife. He wasn't sure how he was ever supposed to approach the topic. She was a sweet woman, just a little too empathetic and he didn't want to weigh her down with his guilty conscience.
She made him happy and he had felt incredibly guilty about it since the day they met. It seemed incredibly unfair to him, that he got to be happy, that he got to have a family while Christine rotted away somewhere with only him to remember her.
He could have done something. He could have helped her if he wasn't so God damn young and stupid.
He needed to know. He had to. Before he could change his mind, again, he dialed the number that was handwritten on the back of the card and lifted his office phone to his ear.
It rang three times before it was picked up.
"Detective Ross, homicide division."
Homicide. It took Raoul a moment to regain himself. "Detective Ross, my name is Raoul de Changy," he said, his voice much steadier than his hands."I was given your number in reference to Christine Dan - Daae. Christine Daae."
"Oh! Mr de Changy," the voice answered, his tone much more conversational. "I've been waiting for your call."
"I was told that you have some questions," Raoul said weakly. "I'm afraid that I have quite a few myself. This may be a waste of your time but I want to help. However I can."
"Right into it, then," the detective said, clearing his throat. "Hold on, I have - here we go. How long were you acquainted with Miss Daae?"
"Only a few years," he answered, rubbing his sweating palm against his pant leg. "We met in the summer of 2013. I dropped her off at a rehab center in March of 2015. That was the last time I ever heard from her."
Raoul heard the shuffle of papers.
"A very short time, then," the detective said slowly. "How would you classify your relationship with Miss Daae?"
"Romantic," he answered, the word coming easily. "We were romantically involved. The whole time. On and off."
"How well did you know Miss Daae?"
Raoul paused, frowning. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "There were - I think I knew her the best that anyone outside of her household did. But I still think- there were lies between us.I only ever knew her as Christine Dane."
"That matches," the detective answered. ''It was a convincing alias. Separate social security number birth certificate. It's made it all a bit difficult to unravel"
"...Am I under some sort of suspicion?" Raoul asked, finally voicing the thought in the back of his head. It seemed the sort of thing a man like the Erik Christine had described to her would do.
"Not at all," the detective answered easily. ''We have a full confession. We're just trying to connect the dots."
Relief flooded through him so suddenly that he was lightheaded. "Erik," he breathed. "You have him. Why don't you ask him? He's the only one that really knows."
"We would love to," the detective answered. "I would, at least. Unfortunately he's dead, too."
Raoul's hand opened and closed anxiously. ''I know you have questions, but - can you tell me how she died?"
"Overdose," the detective answered easily. "Her case is closed. They both died of overdose. It was murder-suicide as far as we can tell. You are free to ask anything. I can give you the case number and you can request a copy if you'd like."
Raoul swallowed thickly. "Does that hurt?"
"No," the detective answered. "It's likely that she didn't feel anything at all… I very much doubt that she knew she was dying."
Raoul closed his eyes. He felt relieved with the answer and he felt just as guilty for it. He should be horrified. He was horrified.
He remembered that night years before, that night he found her barely breathing on the bathroom floor. She had never complained of any sort of physical was better than what he had pictured in his head. Horrifying, of course. She was dead. Regardless of how it happened it was horrifying but he took some small comfort from the fact that she hadn't been in pain.
"He's a coward," Raoul answered, his emotions taking the best of him. ''He's a fucking coward. He deserved worse. He should've fucking hung, firing squad.. he - he deserved worse."
"Tell me what you know about him."
Raoul blinked, taking a shaky breath. "Not much," he said slowly. "I never met him. I know that his face was fucked up… I know that he hit her. She was terrified of him. I know that he… he drugged her. He fucking - he raped her. He only cared about himself. I know that he was a sociopath. That's all. I never… I didn't want to know him. I don't think she knew him, either. Not really"
"He's tied to sixty-four open cases," the detective said, his voice serious. "Anything you know about him will help."
Raoul couldn't breathe. When he closed his eyes, all that he saw was Christine. Her long blonde hair and pretty blue eyes, her shy smile. She was more than a victim. She was gorgeous. Talented. She was funny. She had a quick wit, before the drugs, before he really sank his nails into her.
She was more than number sixty-five.
''He liked music," Raoul answered, his brow furrowing. ''I don't know if that helps. He-Harris. Erik was a composer She met him when she was fifteen wherever- wherever she came from. He was there for at least a few months. I think- at least seven. At least seven months. Does that help?"
"'It helps," the detective kind of timeline helps… we've found four girls. Alive. It helps, Mr de Changy."
For the first time, Raoul didn't try to choke his tears down. He loved her. He honestly had. He would give anything for her to have been one of those four girls. "Where is she?" he breathed into the phone holding it in two hands. "Is she buried?"
"Next to her father," the detective answered. ''He was kind enough to tell us where in his note. He wanted to be buried beside her. We didn't grant that request. She's in Wisconsin. He's in Washington."
Raoul swallowed again. ''How did my name come into it?"
"You were in the suicide note," the detective answered his words calm. "It said that you should be notified."
"Can I get a copy of it?" he asked helplessly, hands tight around the phone. "The suicide note. I need - even if you can just read it to me. Please."
There was silence for a long moment and then the detective sighed. "I wish I could," he said, sounding truly sincere. "It's a confession. To more cases than hers. If you request a copy of the report you'll get it. It'll be redacted but everything pertaining to her will be there."
"I'm a lawyer," Raoul offered,feeling truly desperate. "Tell me-anything. I'll help. Anything at all. The girls. I - I'll do anything to help them. Or the families. Anything at all."
"He had cancer," the detective offered suddenly. "Stage four. It was in his lungs and bone. We think that's what sparked it. There was a ruptured tumor, upper left lung."
"So he took her too," Raoul said, running his hand over his face. "Can you tell me anything? Anything about Christine Where she grew up, who she was...anything."
"She grew up in Wisconsin," the detective answered slowly. "Her father passed away when she was six and she bounced around quite a bit after that. Everyone that we've managed to track down has said the same thing - she was sweet but sad. She vanished when she was fifteen - same time her alias started popping up."
"Then she was sixteen," he said, his heart sinking. "She was only sixteen when I met her."
"You're under no investigation," detective Ross reassured him. "Her alias was very convincing."
"Fuck the alias!" Raoul exclaimed. "She was sixteen - sixteen. She was just a kid. She couldn't - oh, God, Christine. It makes sense. It all makes sense. He's lucky he killed himself."
"The line is recorded."
"He's dead, why does it matter?" Raoul asked bitterly, running a hand through his own hair. "Erik. Sixteen. When did she die?"
"May sixteenth," the detective answered. "The confession was in the note and corroborated with the physical evidence. We had no reason to delay the investigation."
"Then twenty-two," he breathed. "She was only twenty-two."
"Young," the detective agreed. "Every girl mentioned in the note was young. If you think of anything at all, it's very important that you notify us. Only one of the four we recovered were in the states. We recovered six deceased. Only three of them were in the country. It's very important."
"Did Christine die in Chicago?"
"Vienna," the detective answered. "In a hotel room. The passport was under her alias. It was a very good alias."
"Tell me what to do."
"You're a lawyer?" the detective asked.
"Yeah," Raoul answered softly.
"Neither of them had a next of kin," he said slowly. "Sue his estate for wrongful death. Start a nonprofit. It'll help. We won't eat through all of the funds."
Raoul swallowed thickly. "A nonprofit," he echoed weakly. "In her name. For prosecution and… and schooling. For domestic violence victims."
"It'll be up to you. Your nonprofit. You'll absolutely win."
A nonprofit. He wasn't sure why he hadn't thought of it. It was simple. It could bear her name It could be her legacy. She wouldn't be a statistic. She would be a savior.
Domestic violence, human trafficking. It didn't matter. She could help victims. He could help victims.
"I should have done more."
"Notify Raoul de Changy," the detective said, his words slow. "He loved her and she loved him. She would want him to know and he will do good with the information."
"It''s from the note,'' Raoul answered, running a hand through his messed hair. "She's still dead. It won't bring her back. I could have helped her and I-I didn't."
"According to the suicide note, you did about everything you could have," the detective said. "You can't help someone unless they want it. Request a copy of the report, Mr de Changy."
Raoul closed his eyes. He liked to close his eyes. She was always there; her soft, easy smile and blonde hair, her blue, sober eyes. He missed her. He missed the person she had been, before the drugs. She had been different then.
Sweet, gentle, easy.
"A nonprofit," he agreed softly. "Only if it bears her name. I'll do it. Funding to law enforcement and victims of trafficking."
"If you have an email, I'd like to send you some files," the detective said, sounding entirely human for the first time. "The EPs will release soon. I think you've more than earned your copies."
"Please," he breathed. In all the time that they had spent together, she never had sang for him.
He had exactly one voicemail left. He had saved it carefully after she had vanished from his life, sending it from one email to another. It was simple.
"Raoul?" she asked in response to the trick voicemail that he had set up at the time. Eventually, after a long pause, she laughed. "It gets me every time," she said, disconnecting. The message was only forty-five seconds long but he hadn't been able to let go of it.
He wasn't sure if he ever would.
He answered the detective giving his business email but knowing full well that he would send the files to at least four different backups. He wouldn't forget her. Not her voice, not her sweet, innocent simile. He refused to forget her.
Someone had to remember her and for the first time, he fully felt up to the task.
After he disconnected, when the email came through, he plugged a set of earbuds into his computer, closing his eyes as he listened. For the first time, he thought that he could believe how the man thought he fell in love with her.
