It is not at all challenging for someone like me to get a fix on the haunts and habits of someone like Meg Giry. Penetrating (pardon the unfortunate pun) that sad little mind afforded me no diversion; I've been more exercised by removing Christine's corset. There was a slight misstep in our pas de deux of death—or so it appeared at the outset, but it all turned out to my advantage in the end. You see, the gods truly have been with me since the inception of this plan to redeem my life from Meg's clutches.

When my research first began, our heroine was being…courted? wooed? ridden? by a youth I rather came to pity. At the time of my appearance on the scene, it was clear that Meg had already set her cap for a more promising victim, so she was bitchy and dissatisfied with everything poor lovesick Gilles tried to do for—or to--her. He seemed a fun-loving suitor who genuinely found Meg pretty and talented (I mean artistically). He was also relatively sober, considering they normally rendezvoused in a tavern. I am glad that I did not have to murder her on Gilles' watch.

The new beau was embarrassingly easy to hate: guess who he immediately brought to mind? Not merely callow, but arrogantly so; over-dressed, over-perfumed, over-sexed, and prettier than Meg—delightful in every way. He had more money; he hired a room for them to fornicate in. Tuesdays and Wednesdays for certain, other days if they could manage it, little Meggie and her Roger played slap-and-tickle in a fairly decent establishment that shared a yard with a livery stable. After all my research was complete, I concluded that the yard was the ideal place for Meg and me to have our little tete a tete.

I took my time. No self-respecting cat rushes after his mouse. I knew where she would be when I wanted her. I had waited until the Opera House was reborn because it afforded me the perfect opportunity to be 'elsewhere' legitimately. I told Christine—truthfully—that the new construction demanded that I fashion a whole new complement of trap-doors, dead-ends, bolt-holes, passageways, shortcuts, and other necessities of the trade. A Phantom does not enter through the front door, after all. I worked on my Opera House renovations and my la Giry research project simultaneously.

Finally, I was ready. Typically, the sweethearts would separate in the alley alongside their love nest after a last minute grope; Meg scuttling off in one direction, the dashing Roger lurching off in another. The Phantom would secrete himself in the shadows of the alley, accosting the fair Meg once her swain had staggered out of range.

"Meg," I whispered, catching her shoulder.

She turned, giggling, "Roger…"

In shadow, I caught her hands in mine and drew her away from the street. When we passed under the light at the entrance to the yard, she gasped and reclaimed her hands. I watched the thoughts struggle through the fog of her wine- and Roger- soaked brain. Phantom, bad, run! No, Christine's husband: friend, sort-of. Her smile was tentative, her eyes ambivalent.

I put on as benign a smile as I could manage and spoke gently.

"Meggie's been a very naughty girl…"

Her eyes sparkled with fear again as she pleaded, "You won't tell Maman, will you?"

"Nooo, no," I crooned, taking the trembling sparrow under an avuncular wing, "I cannot fault you for being a high-spirited girl, can I?" She brightened considerably when she realized that we had an understanding.

"Oh, thank you! Maman doesn't understand. She still treats me like a child," she confided.

"You mustn't be too hard on Maman…"

"Still, I'm glad you don't think I'm a bad girl," she smiled up at me, with a hint of provocation.

"I didn't say that, Meg," I still smiled, but my voice had turned stern.

"But—" confusion dampened her smile.

"I do not care about your…romantic intrigues, Meg. I want to discuss your unwelcome meddling in my marriage; opening Christine's mind to ideas best left unexplored, causing her to question her husband's judgement…"

She started to squirm; I had to grip her arm more firmly.

"I'm not! When did I--"

"Ssshhh, you talk too much, Meg. Trying to undermine my authority with my wife…haven't you heard 'What God has joined, let no man put asunder'? I assure you, that applies equally for women."

Meg struggled fiercely, her brow furrowed with irritation. "I'm not trying to und—"

I struck Meg squarely on her nose; I felt the underlying structure give way before she fell. Her nose and split upper lip poured blood as she coughed and sputtered to catch her breath. Perhaps I loosened teeth as well.

"Didn't I just say you talk too much?" I demanded.

I crouched alongside her. She made wet, whimpering sounds and tried to crawl away, but my hand on her throat saw to that. Captivated, I watched her eyes widen; her irises were rimmed all around with white as she struggled uselessly. I felt a surge of power, addictive as morphine, as Meg slipped from panic into terror under my hand.

The demon stirred, unbidden. Meg seemed to catch the scent of lust in the damp night air. She reached for her skirts to cover her legs as best she could.

"Don't be absurd," I snarled, "I want nothing to do with your poxy gash."

At that moment, I saw Meg's gaze darken with the understanding that she would die. Yet, she could not resist searching my lifeless eyes and pleading wordlessly for her pathetic life, though she knew...

"No," I confirmed.

Meg began to tear and claw at my hand, but her throat was small and easily crushed. It was effortless, almost unsatisfying. As I stood I examined my hands: completely clean; my clothing, spotless. I glanced at the broken girl, just outside the circle of lamplight. The demon made one last suggestion, but I took no notice.

I went directly home, because I am a good husband.

Walking home, I felt buoyed aloft with…I don't know…an incredible feeling of love for all mankind. The weight—not lifted, vanished! The caverns beneath the Opera House rang with the Phantom's laughter.

In an uncharacteristically cavalier and untidy moment, I shucked all my clothing and left it in a wrinkled heap on the floor as I slipped into bed. My Angel murmured and snuggled, running sleepy hands down my back.

"Erik…naked Erik," she sighed happily, trying to wake.

"Sshhh, sleep, Angel." I sang her a lullaby and followed her joyfully into peaceful sleep.

I brushed Christine's tousled curls back from her face and kissed her sweet forehead.

"Good morning," I smiled.

"Mmm, when did you return?"

"I never left."

"You stayed with me all night?" she gazed at me with wonder.

"I did."

"Erik! Erik stayed with Christine all night," she squealed. I rolled onto my back and drew her on top of me. Much playful kissing and giggling ensued.

I was seized by an enchanting idea. My mouth being otherwise engaged, I made my suggestion to Christine by drawing her gown up over her thighs and matchless derriere. She raised herself slightly to help me slide it up to her waist. She purred, expressing appreciation for the demon's effusive greeting. I drew her down for some serious kissing.

Presently, Christine eased away and sat up, straddling my hips most agreeably. Her cheeks were pink and her lips seemed puffy and tender already, and I'd scarcely begun my assault.

"Shall I—" she moved to dismount, but I caught her hips.

"No…stay right…there." A few minor adjustments on my part…a bit of eager cooperation on her part…I slid home to a warm, wet welcome.

"Oh! Ohhh," Christine shuddered; her eyes rolled back as if she was a medium entering a trance. She moved uncannily, instinctively. No girl of the shah's harem could have ridden me more exquisitely. She delighted in lowering herself excruciatingly slowly, making me shudder and moan and beg. I thought I might die, and found myself untroubled, even delighted, at the idea.

Throughout my labyrinth, I have a series of bells and clickers which serve as early warning of curiosity seekers, blunderers, or fatally stupid risk-takers, among others. The practical result is that I can know precisely where the intruder is, his route, his rate of speed; in short, I cannot be snuck up on.

It was at this divinely blissful, long-anticipated, and hard-won moment that I was cruelly distracted by a distinctive tinkling sound.

"Erik!" Christine knows all about the damned bells and clickers, too.

"It's a rat, Christine," I prayed, please let it be a rat. "Don't stop."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, I'm sure…don't stop."

Another minute. Another tinkle. Not a rat. Merde.

"Erik, it's not a rat!"

"Wait, just…ignore it," I pleaded.

"I can't," she fussed, slipping away.

"Nooooo, Christiiiine, wait wait..no, no, no…merde MERDE!"

"I'm sorry, Erik, but—"

"Whoever he is, he is dead. DEAD."

I struggled into my damned clothes and stomped off to do murder. The demon was throbbing; his brothers were aching. When my boys suffer, I suffer. Someone else must suffer as well. I had about two minutes to meditate on what the obscene irony of my actually being disturbed at such a transcendent moment when I live in a cave under the Opera House. My hands tingled to contact my victim's throat, just ahead. I ducked aside for him to pass…

"Adele! What the hell—"

She looked a sight, pale as a ghost. "Meg, she is with Christine?" she whispered.

I had forgotten.

"Of course not, Adele, what time is it?"

"She was not in her bed this morning…you're sure she isn't with Christine?"

"Quite," I replied dryly. "I am sure there is a reasonable explanation," I suggested as I brought her down.

Christine was making tea; I told her Meg was missing. We assured Adele at least a dozen times that Meg was not with us, nor had we seen her. As Adele stared into her teacup, I drew Christine aside and suggested that she mention the boyfriend. Her initial reaction was that she did not want to 'get Meg in trouble', but I managed to convince her that given this uncharacteristic disappearance, Maman needed to know. Finally, she relented.

"Maman," Christine took Adele's hand. "There is a boy…"

"A boy? What boy?" Adele was nonplussed.

"Meg meets him sometimes."

"Meets him? What are you saying?"

Christine turned pink, pinker, and blinked a lot.

Adele shook her head. "Who is he? Do you know him?"

"No, I know his name is Roger, that is all."

"Where do they—"

"I don't know anything more. I'm sorry." Christine looked at me, silently hoping she'd done the right thing. I nodded.

"Are you sure?" Adele was struggling against this information.

"Adele, Christine and I had a conversation. From what Christine said Meg said…yes. I'm sure." That seemed to settle it for her, when I said so.

"Do you suppose they eloped? Why wouldn't she tell me?" Adele fretted.

"Maman, let me get dressed and come upstairs with you. I'm sure she is up there right now, looking for breakfast," Christine smiled. "Erik can wait here in case Meg comes down."

"Of course," I nodded. "Or I can look around upstairs if you like."

Christine dressed and they went up. I put my feet up, threw back a bottle of Bordeaux and basked in my victory. I reflected briefly that, even in death, the little bitch managed to insinuate herself between my sheets. Fine, have your bit of fun this final time; I can wait.

After two hours I cruised upstairs to ask after the missing Meg. Christine and Adele's faces told the story: they were hoping I had news. Adele gave a sigh and sent for the police.

Once the police arrived, things proceeded apace. A connection was quickly made between Meg and the young girl found strangled in a back lot off the Rue de Chantereine. Adele and Christine went to make an identification. I had offered to go initially, to spare Adele the trauma. She was deeply moved by my gesture, but refused.

Within days, the police were able to trace the information the innkeeper had provided and located the hapless Roger. He had no motive; likewise no alibi, et allors. It was never in doubt that he'd be the one to pay for Meg's murder, and once that was accomplished, the healing could begin. The Opera family closed ranks around Madame Giry in her grief. I tended to Christine in every way I could. She assured me that I was the most wonderful man in the world for such loving care, but it was easy to do; she was suffering, and I want her happiness more than anything. Over time, the glimmer returned to Christine's eyes. I was fantastically happy.