Letter Twelve - Aftermath

She is reaching, reaching, reaching. Bottles made of blue and green and sky yellow, smokey and smooth from the sand the sand the buffeting sand. Her fingers touch one, it moves, another, it moves.

Behind her is a shadow she ignores. She touches a yellow bottle, a yellow bottle bobbing in the cloudy gray water, cloudy gray water reflecting the sky. The shadow is closer now, is darker now, and isn't that papa's handwriting, there, inside the yellow bottle?

She feels something wrap around her feet, her waist, vines that are not vines. Cords. Ropes. Snakes with nooses instead of heads and now she is not looking at the bottles or the grey sky. They are gone and it is dark and she hears a terrible sound, thick and wet and heavy. Joseph Buquet falls from above, his body crumpled at her feet, and she is in the red dress again and she is running but he is still by her feet and he's grabbing her, grabbing her feet, grabbing her hands. His face bloated, blue, but not like the bottles, not like the long gone bottles are blue, his lips dark, his tongue darker and she can't move her arms. "I am the angel of music" his dead mouth says without moving and

Christine woke with a start, skin damp with sweat, breaths coming in panicked gasps. Her eyes darted around the room, taking comfort in the familiarity. Desk, dresser, closet, and Mr. Stuffins in his place of honor on the armchair. The streetlight outside lined everything in orange. She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the clock.

3:00 AM.

She sunk back onto her pillows and closed her eyes. Joseph Buquet's face. Her eyes popped back open. She closed her eyes again. Joseph Buquet's face again. It occurred to her that the ceiling was lovely, and much less frightening, and hadn't been stared at properly in a long time. After a while, she turned her bedside lamp on. She prayed. She read verses from the bible about comfort and not being afraid.

She closed her eyes, and saw him swinging under the stage.

She left the lamp on and curled into herself.

o...o0o...o

"Excuse me, Officer?" Police tape blocked off an area of about 20-feet in front of the opera doors, and Christine waved to one of the cops milling about in the space. "I need to get inside."

"No comment, and no reporters. Please step back, miss."

"Oh, no. I'm not a– I work here?"

"Opera's closed until further notice. I'm sure someone will inform you when it reopens." The cop started to leave, but turned back to face her. "Were you here last night?"

"Yeah."

"One second." The cop turned away from Christine and spoke into his radio. He listened for a moment, responded, then turned and lifted the tape. "Come with me."

Christine hurried after the officer, breathing a sigh of relief as they entered the lobby. She started towards her dressing room. She'd just get to her room, talk to the–

"Miss? Please follow me." The cop, holding open the office door, motioned her through. She changed course, slowly, confused. He pointed to a chair outside the manager's door. "Wait here."

Christine pulled her phone out of her pocket and opened her email. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. The most recent email was from Reyer to the company, informing them about the opera closure. She let her head fall into her hand and rubbed at her eyes. She'd been so tired this morning, so drained from the gala and the…

She shuddered, unable to focus on the dreams from last night. She'd only fallen asleep after the sun rose, and her alarm went off what felt like moments later. She should have checked her email.

She just wanted to talk to the Angel.

"Miss Daae?" One of the new managers gestured for her to come in. The office was crowded with both sets of managers and a grizzled man at the end of middle-aged who had taken over the desk. A younger man in a suit was leaning against the wall by the window, hands on his hips, and Christine could see the badge and gun normally concealed beneath his blazer. In another corner stood David Peirson, regarding her evenly. The manager motioned for Christine to sit in the chair opposite the man.

"My name is Detective Anatole, that's my partner, Detective Destler," the man nodded towards the suit at the window before clasping his hands and resting them on the desk. Destler flipped a notepad to a new page, "and I'll be asking you a few questions about last night. Name?"

"Christine Daae."

"Occupation?"

"Singer? I mean, uh...Operatic Soprano at the Met." She could see the detective by the window taking note of her answers.

"It's our understanding that you were one of the people who discovered the body–"

Christine let out a strangled gasp.

"I didn't discover the body! I was just–just trying to get to the other side of the stage... I mean, I did...see...the body, but there were already a bunch of people there."

The room fell quiet at her outburst, and she squeezed her hands into fists in her lap.

"Of course, Miss Daae. We're just trying to get an accurate timeline of events. We have several witnesses who said they saw you at the crime scene, as well as a statement from Mr. Firman here that you told him about the body before you went on stage. Is that correct?"

Christine nodded.

"Very good. Now..." The detective stared at her for a long moment as his partner scribbled away on his pad. "Why don't you just start at...say 5pm and walk me through your evening."

Christine told him everything, from the cast change, the costumer, all the way to her collapse onstage. The detective nodded to his partner by the window and stood. Christine stood quickly as well.

"Thank your time, Miss Daae." He opened the door. "We'll contact you if we have any further questions."

Christine was out the door and down the hall before the whole scenario caught up with her. Had she just been questioned in a murder investigation? Why had she freaked out like that? Were they going to try and pin the murder on her? She couldn't hang anybody, she was too short! Thoughts cartwheeled through her mind as astounding speeds, and more than ever she wanted to speak to the Angel. There was an officer posted by the door that led backstage.

"Excuse me," Christine said as she approached the woman, "I need to run to my dressing room...would that be ok?"

"Backstage is off-limits until the investigation is complete." The woman's tone brooked no argument.

Christine murmured some sort of response and found herself outside, found herself on the subway, found herself walking down a sun-dappled path in Central Park until she found herself sitting on the stone edge of the Bethesda Fountain.

The cool of the stone seeped through her jeans, making her shiver. Several leaves skittered over the toes of her boots as she lost herself in the intricacies of the cracks in the concrete. What was she going to do? A horrible weight settled in her stomach as she thought of the Angel, waiting and waiting and she unable to come.

What a disappointment she must be.

The glare of the stage, the creak of the rope, the feeling of the floor rising up to meet her flickered across her mind and she dropped her head into her hands.

Her phone pinged, and with a small groan, Christine pulled it from her pocket, a Twitter notification glowing on her screen. The anxious weight that had settled in her stomach changed, turned over, began to zip around inside of her with a feeling distinctly reminiscent of rainbows and glitter and that time in 6th Grade when Ricky Feinburg asked her to dance! She fumbled with the home button, and the phone danced across the backs of her nervous fingers, tipping out of her hands and tumbling towards the fountain. A series of small bats and one very good catch later, Christine pulled the phone away from danger, swiped open the screen, and pulled up the message.

Hey Christine! Sorry to slide into your DMs, haha, but I wasn't sure if you still had the same number. Things were weird last night, and I just wanted to apologize if I made you uncomfortable. Hope you are feeling better!

This is Raoul, by the way.

After a series of several very subdued squeals, Christine took a deep breath and started to type.

Hey Raoul! How are you? And no worries! Last night was weird in general, it had nothing to do with you. You're good!

The phone pinged again just a few moments later.

Good to hear. Hey, if you're feeling up to it, wanna grab a cup of coffee? I'm free whenever tomorrow and it would be great to catch up.

Christine looked up at the sky and tried to push down her excitement. Her insides were now humming with that feeling she got from watching the hand flex scene in the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice, and she knew needed to rein it in. This was nothing. Not a big deal. She had some free time, they'd been close once, it was nothing more than two friends catching up.

In fact, it was so chill, so not a big deal, that she actually didn't even care to go. She wouldn't go. It would probably be boring and awkward anyway.

Yeah! Sure thing! That would be great! Does 10am work? I know of a super cool cafe!

Or she would go! Either way, not a big deal! Christine knocked the phone against her forehead in rapid succession. The phone pinged.

That sounds great! Send me the address and I'll see you tomorrow. Can't wait!

Christine sent the address to Raoul and felt herself smiling. It was nothing. Nothing. Just coffee with a friend, but that heavy feeling lifted. The memory of the night before dimmed. The long, open day before her no longer felt like a trial. The Angel would understand why she couldn't make it, right?

The smell of hot pretzels wafted by and reminded her that she had not eaten since the night before the Gala. She crossed to the pretzel cart and bought one. She took the subway to the museum and spent the rest of the morning there. She ran some errands, bought a new top, and picked up dinner for herself and Mamma V. They made popcorn and watched a couple rom-coms.

Mamma Valerius smoothed the hair back from Christine's face and kissed her on the forehead as they were saying goodnight.

"I haven't seen you this happy in a while," the old woman said, her eyes soft. "Sweet dreams, dear."

Christine gave Mamma a kiss on the cheek in return and made her way to her room. She changed into clean pajamas and washed her face before pulling up the messages from Raoul. She smiled around her toothbrush as she read them, and smiled as she read them again just before turning out her lamp.

But then she was reaching, reaching, reaching. The bottles made of blue and green and sky yellow, smokey and smooth from the sand the sand the buffeting sand. Her fingers touched one, it moved, another, it moved.

If she turned to this side of the bed, would it help?

The shadow was still behind her. She still ignored it, but this time she knew the shadow. She touched a yellow bottle, bobbing in the cloudy gray water, cloudy gray water reflecting the sky. The shadow closer now, darker now, and wasn't that papa's handwriting, there, inside the yellow one?

The sheets were sticky with her sweat and she hated it. She could feel herself turning over, she could feel that she was in bed. She knew it was a dream, but that knowledge was useless. She was trapped, trapped, trapped amongst the bottles she could not reach and the shadow she could not escape.

Until...

Gently, gently, there was a new sound. Warm and soft and curling at the edges. It twisted between the bottles, around the foaming water at her feet, and she knew without looking that the shadow was gone. The song grew a little louder, a little sweeter, circling her head and tickling at her ears.

She woke with a soft gasp, and the song was still there. She was sure of it. She threw the sweat-damp sheets off of her legs and stumbled blearily to the window, flipping the lock open and raising the sash, but by the time the cool night air hit her face, the sound was gone. The fire escape was empty, the street below vacant save for a pair of tiny figures she could see crossing the street blocks and blocks away.

She stayed at the window for a long moment before she shut it and returned to bed. She fell asleep with the song still playing in her head and did not dream for the rest of the night.

o...o0o...o

Christine pushed her way up the stairs and out on the sidewalk. The October air was crisp and cool as she weaved between a set of tourists gaping at buildings looming above them and hastened toward the cafe. It was 9:35 am, and she figured she would have enough time to find a table and tamp down the ever-persistent butterflies plaguing her stomach before Raoul arrived. She pulled open the door and stepped inside the cafe, taking in warmth and the mingled smell of old books and coffee. She pulled off her gloves and began to unwind the red scarf from around her throat.

"Christine!" She turned at the sound of her name and saw Raoul waving from a small table in the corner. "Over here."

She started toward the table, and Raoul rose to meet her, crossing the room in rapid strides before catching her up in a hug, the momentum almost lifting her off her feet. She laughed as they parted, breathless. His hair was styled differently, his suit a more expensive cut, but his smile was the same.

"It's great to see you!" They headed to the counter to order their drinks.

"Yeah. Yeah!" Raoul gestured to the book-laden walls around them. "This place is really cool."

"It is! This is one of my favorite places." She explained how she had found the bookstore-turned-cafe one afternoon a few years ago, and how it had been her go-to spot ever since. The barista called out their drinks and they headed back to the table.

She told him more about the cafe, and he told her about his favorite spot, which led to favorite restaurants, which led to favorite foods. Conversation came as easily as it always had, and they lost time, talking together. He updated her on his life, she updated him on hers. Christine found herself laughing more that day than she had in months.

When she told Raoul about her father's passing, he placed his hand on hers, and they sat that way in silence for a long moment.

"I'm really sorry, Christine. He was a great man."

The sensation of his hand on hers, so steady, so comforting, inured her momentarily to the alarm bell ringing in the back of her mind that he had been touching her for too long, much too long, way too long for a friend.

She slid her hand from beneath his on the pretense of wiping her misty eyes. Perhaps not so much pretense as need.

"So, uh...ha," she said, taking a shaky breath. "What did you need to tell me?"

"Hmm?" Raoul looked at her, confused.

"In my dressing room the other night. You said you had something important to tell me?"

"Oh! Oh, yes. I was...well, what I was going to say–"

"I'm really sorry, by the way. For saying I didn't recognize you," she said, scrambling for some explanation to give him that didn't involve the Angel. "I just felt so muddled, you know, and didn't want to let– I mean wasn't expecting to see my...friend. My old friend. You! You, my good, old friend."

She rubbed at a spot above her eyebrow and hoped her smile was sufficiently hiding that fact that she was screaming inside.

"Good, old friend. Right. Yeah," Raoul laughed too, but it sounded forced. "Uh, it wasn't anything important. I just...wanted to say how great it was to see you. Ask if you wanted to catch up."

"Oh...ok then. Mission accomplished, I guess."

"Yeah, I suppose."

A strangled hush descended on the table, and the two nodded awkwardly at each other until Raoul broke the silence.

"So you're, like, really good at singing."

Christine laughed.

"I mean, really great. You were always fantastic, but the other night...that was something else."

The somewhat heavy mood lifted, and they finished their drinks. Raoul offered to walk her home, and they chatted comfortably as they made their way out of the cafe to the subway, and from the subway to the falafel cart Raoul insisted was the best in the city, and from the cart to the subway again. It was late afternoon by the time Raoul deposited her at her front door.

"It was really great to see you, Christine."

"You too, Raoul."

They shifted closer to each other, each a sun drawing the other in. That tiny, warning bell began ringing in the back of Christine's mind.

"Really, really great," said Raoul, softly.

"Really, really great," Christine repeated.

Raoul leaned in towards her, and she leaned in towards him, and a million things flitted through her mind. A moonlit beach, sun-kissed sand, a red strip of cloth and a waterlogged suit and warning bells warning bells warning, the angel threatening to leave forever if she –

In a flash, she clapped Raoul on the shoulder and shook his hand vigorously.

"Well, it was...great! Ha Ha! Great to see you. Do keep in touch."

Then she fled up the stairs and slammed the door behind her.

"Oh, stupid stupid stupid stupid!" She muttered quickly, and knocked her forehead against the door in rhythm with her chant. Pausing, she stole a glance through the peephole in time to see Raoul's bewildered expression before he shook his head and took off down the street. "Stupid stupid stupid stupid."

She turned and slid down the door until she was seated. Well. At least it hadn't all been bad. Christine smiled to herself for a moment before the phone buzzed in her hand.

An email from Reyer. The Opera would reopen the next day.

o...o0o...o

"A moment of your time, please!" Reyer tapped his baton on his music stand and gestured for the crowd to quiet themselves. "A moment of your time, everyone."

The entire company was gathered onstage, and it took a few minutes before they were quiet enough for Reyer to be heard.

"I'd like to address the issue uppermost on all of our minds. It is with great sadness we must accept the loss of one of our own, Joseph Buquet."

All remaining whispers died away.

"He was a hard worker, and he will be missed. The police have ruled his death a suicide -"

A chorus of voices rose at this.

"Suicide? Joe?"

"I had no idea."

"I heard it was the ghost."

"Quiet, please!" Reyer tapped his baton again on the stand. The crowd quieted again, and he pulled a note from his pocket and peered down his nose to read it. "His death is a tragedy, and HR would like me to tell you that there is a licensed therapist available for grief counseling, and to come to the HR office if you would like to talk. Let us take a moment of silence."

The company stood with heads bowed for a full minute, the only sound the slight shuffle of shifting bodies and a few suspicious sniffles and throat-clearings coming from the group of stagehands.

"Now, onto business." Reyer said after a small cough. "Rehearsals will be running as usual today, and shows will be resuming tonight. Any questions? No? Excellent. Before we break, let's all thank Christine Daae for filling in for Lana Carlotta on such short notice, and for her excellent performance at the Gala. A round of applause!"

The company began to clap, and Christine shyly nodded her thanks. Meg, Lyla, New-Guy-Nate, and a few of the members other chorus cheered loudly while the rest of the group was more subdued. She had worried all night what the company might think of her. Would they think she was a horrid little upstart, taking roles she hadn't earned and claiming glory before she'd paid her dues? She had never wanted the role in the first place, and she worried the opportunity had been purchased at the cost of her hard-won happiness. Though the reaction seemed mixed, no one seemed outwardly angry at her. She breathed a sigh of relief.

She had hoped to talk her worries over with the Angel that morning, but the Voice had never spoken, and she had spent the morning alone.

A few people approached her as everyone moved to their places, some offering congratulations, some hoping she felt better after her faint. She tucked the kind words away, but she took very little pride in the whole affair. How could she? Fainting during what was essentially her operatic debut. How could anyone respect her as a performer if she couldn't even stay conscious for one song?

Christine turned to take her place for rehearsal and collided into someone's chest.

"I'm so sorry-" Christine started, but the rest of her words shriveled on her tongue at the expression in Lana Carlotta's eyes. The woman stared at Christine with malice for a long, tense moment before gliding past her and crossing to the opposite wing without looking back. Christine released a shuddering breath and took her place in the chorus as the opening notes began to play.

Carlotta slid through the company all throughout rehearsal, always in a new spot whenever Reyer gave them a few minutes rest, and always out of Christine's earshot. By the time they broke for dinner, Christine had noticed more than a few cold glances thrown in her direction. By the time the bows were taken, she had noticed even more.

"You were late coming in at the top of Act III." The Voice was cold, ice blue and sharp as the sun on snow.

Christine started when she heard it, nearly dropping the wig she had just removed.

"Angel! I'm so happy you're here, I've wanted to -"

"We will start with Act III. We will make sure you know exactly when to come in. The we shall move onto the other issues.

"Of course, but Maestro -"

"From the top, Miss Daae!"

The cool tone cut at her, and she blinked her burning eyes several times before squaring her shoulders and starting to sing.

The next morning's lesson went much the same. And the next. Christine was brimming with unasked questions. She wanted to speak with the Angel. She needed to. She wanted to discuss the finer points of her debut, she wanted to talk about how Buquet's death made her feel. She wanted him to sing her into serenity, but he remained cool, aloof.

"Two missed lessons, and you've suffered such a decline. We must work very hard to bring you back to where you were."

Rehearsals devolved into a study of pointed dismissal. Fully half the cast and at least a quarter of the crew were ignoring her completely, and the rest seemed to be discussing her behind her back. Even Lyla was cool when Christine tried to greet her. Only Meg seemed to not think Christine a pariah.

Carlotta had turned the full force of her wrath on Christine. Every issue, every hang-up, every misstep was attributed to Christine. Carlotta would point out Christine's incorrect posture, her pronunciation of Italian, or any other claim she could use to halt rehearsal and lay the blame of it at Christine's feet.

As another long day came to an end and the company broke after final bows, Christine hung behind to avoid any post-show conversations. She didn't want to deal with being excluded by everyone. When the coast seemed clear, she began to make her way towards her dressing room. Just as she reached the door to the hall, she heard voices coming from behind a thick mass of pulleys and ropes. She crept toward the sound.

"Really?" said one voice.

"Yeah, more like friends-with-influence." said the other.

"Her and Raoul de Chagny? No way."

"That's what I heard."

"Well, Thomas was telling me that Carlotta told him that she...you know." The first voice sounded familiar, and Christine's felt that heavy weight settle inside her again.

"She what?"

"She…" The first voice paused, then came a gasp from the second voice.

"No!"

"Yeah, in the office. Apparently Carlotta need to talk to the new managers and the secretary wasn't there, so she opened the door to peek inside and she saw them."

"No wonder she got the part!"

Christine felt sick, but she needed to see. She peeked around the edge of the curtain and saw Lyla with one of the altos. Lyla looked up at Christine's soft gasp, and the dancer's eyes widened with shock.

Christine heard Lyla calling her name, but she ignored it as she ran for her dressing room. She careened down the hall, eyes blurry, face hot, and a sob escaped her as she slammed the door shut behind her.

"You are late." The Voice had no warmth. The Voice had no sympathy. "Did I not instruct that you are to come to me immediately after the show."

"I got held up," Christine bit out.

"Held up."

"Yes."

"And what was this 'hold up,' Miss Daae? What was so important that you would delay your appointment with the Angel of Music."

"It doesn't matter. Can we please just sing now?" Christine pushed off from where she had been leaning on the door.

"I will be the judge of that. What was the hold up?"

"Can we please just sing?" Christine's voice cracked, and her hands balled into fists.

"No. Tell me. Tell me now, Miss Daae."

With a sob of rage, Christine ripped the wig off her head and hurled it onto the couch.

"What is with you lately?" Her voice raised in frustration, her eyes glittered with unshed tears, and she dug her fingers into her scalp. "I'm gone for two days, two days, circumstances completely out of my control and you...you…"

She let out another frustrated cry and spun away from the mirror before turning and rushing back towards her reflection.

"I am trying! I am trying so hard." Her voice cracked and she laid one hand gently on the mirror. "And, and, there are so many things I want to talk to you about but…"

She leaned her forehead on the glass just as she felt two large tears start down her face.

"Please, Maestro...I don't know what I did or said to upset you…"

There was a long, long pause in which the only sounds were small and strangled and from Christine.

"Why did you lie about the boy?"

"What?" Christine stepped back from the mirror, and she could see her confusion reflected back to her.

"When the boy came here after the Gala, why did you lie?" The Voice was rapidly gaining temperature. "When he came in and said he rescued your scarf from the sea, why did you say you did not know him?"

"I– I'm not sure…"

"You're not sure. She's not sure." The Voice, the beautiful, golden voice, had taken on an edge she had never heard before. "Well, I think it is because Christine loves the boy."

"No–"

"It is because Christine loves the boy and she no longer needs the Angel of music."

"No, that's not it!"

"If you give your heart to someone here on earth, then I can no longer be your teacher. "

"I know that! I know that!" Christine was making tight circles around the room, chasing a voice she could not see.

"I will leave forever! Your father's promise wasted! Do you not understand?"

"Please, Maestro, I know!" She slammed into the corner of the couch as she turned and almost lost her balance. The fight seemed to seep out of her.

"I didn't want…" she gestured vaguely at the room, " I didn't want something like this. I didn't– I don't– want to lose you."

A rich hum darted around the small room, and Christine sank onto the couch.

"You say the boy is just a friend." The Voice sounded almost composed.

"Yes."

"Well then, if he is a friend in the same way the Giry girl is a friend, I do not mind."

"What?" Christine's brow furrowed, her voice soft and tired.

"If Christine says the boy is just a friend, then I believe her."

"Ok…"

"Yes, if he were just a friend then you would be open with me, wouldn't you, Miss Daae? If he were a just a friend you wouldn't skulk about with him in secret?"

"Yes? I mean, no?" Christine's head felt thick and slow, and she had the impression she was walking into something she didn't understand.

"Then you should spend some time with this old friend. This good, old friend."

"I don't need to, it's fine." She stood and crossed to the changing screen. She needed to go to home. She needed to go to bed.

"Oh, but if he was such a good, old friend," the Angel said, putting an emphasis on the words that Christine didn't understand, "then you would want to spend time with him."

"Really, it's fine." Christine hung her costume on the rack, picked her wig up from the couch and placed it on its stand, and put on her jacket.

"No, that doesn't make sense, Miss Daae." The Voice was back in complete control now. "If he was a friend, you'd want to see him. People like to see their friends. If you avoid him, I must assume it is because you are in-"

"Fine!" Christine interrupted, and the weight of the interruption, of the whole interaction, hit her square in the chest. Her shoulders tensed. This was the Angel of Music. She couldn't act like this. She couldn't scream at him. What was she thinking? She forced her voice to sound calm and pleasant. "That's fine. I can spend time with him."

She cast about in her mind for some way to prove...whatever it was the Angel wanted her to prove. The solution came to her like a kick in the gut, but she kept her voice light.

"The anniversary of my father's...It'll be a year in a couple of weeks," her voice cracked, just a little bit, despite her best efforts. "I'm going to Port Jarvis to visit his grave. He knew my dad. I'll invite him to that."

"Very good, Miss Daae. That is good." The Voice was sunshine again, caramel again, all-is-right-in-the-world again. Christine felt her shoulders loosen as the voice continued, even gentler. "If you permit me, I will go there as well."

"You will?"

"Yes. If you go to your father's grave at midnight that night, I will play you a song on his violin...if you would like."

The thought of hearing her father's violin filled her with a longing that overtook every other thought.

"You would do that for me?" A quiet, broken whisper.

"Oh, yes, Miss Daae."

She nodded, and swiped at her eyes. The hum danced around the room again, comforting and close. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"May I go home now? It's late, and I really don't think I can–"

"Of course, Miss Daae," said the Voice. Christine nodded gratefully and grabbed her purse before the Voice continued in a slightly harder tone. "After one song."

All the way home, from the sidewalk to subway to bed, Christine played the scene over and over again in her head. She tried to add the pieces together, but the math did not make sense. She knew, she knew, she had to know, that the Angel of Music was real. The Voice, the feeling, everything...crazy as it seemed, how could it not be? The Angel was real or she was crazy, those were the options.

But in the very back of her mind, in a dark corner behind a locked door and several embarrassing moments she'd forced herself to forget, was a tiny thought she did her best to ignore.