All throughout the car ride, Christine tried to mentally prepare herself for the reunion. Maéva was happily looking out of the window, which the driver had rolled down slightly for her. They drove for at least thirty minutes, the city huge and sprawling and muggy. It made her miss Paris with an ache. Paul pointed out some buildings and sites and commented on them and their purpose, but Christine simply nodded in response, unable to pay much attention to what he was actually saying.

They finally stopped in front of a skyscraper in what looked to be the city's finance district. The outside of the building was all reflective glass, glinting brightly in the summer sunshine, and it looked like just the sort of place that Raoul would work. Paul insisted on carrying her backpack for her and led the two of them inside. Christine, feeling more and more panicked, picked up her daughter and held her close, looking around, wondering if she should simply grab her backpack and disappear. This was a bad, bad plan, and Christine knew it.

They rode up an escalator to the twenty-second floor, and it opened into a productive-looking office space. Phones were ringing, people typing on computers, files being passed back and forth…There was a general air of success. Paul put her backpack down near a desk and assured her that it would be safe there while she spoke with Monsieur de Chagny. She was led past offices, through a few doors, and into a large reception area. Paul spoke to a man behind the desk, who then picked up his phone and called someone.

A moment later, Raoul walked out of some adjoining doors. Christine stared. He looked…so very handsome. The California climate agreed with him. His face was a bit thinner, making him look older and more serious, but his hair was still golden, and his eyes were still their familiar baby blue. He was wearing a very fine, well-tailored business suit, and his skin was tanned and smooth. Christine was even more distinctly aware of her frizzy, dirty hair and wrinkled clothes.

Raoul stopped mid-step for a moment when he saw Maéva in her arms. A wave of surprise came over his face, but he quickly covered it.

"Come into my office," he said, and Christine did as she was told. When the doors shut behind them, Maéva squirmed in Christine's arms, whining that she wanted down.

"Don't touch anything, Maéva," Christine warned, relenting.

The office was large and airy and very modern. The view was spectacular—she could see palm trees as well as snow-capped mountains in the distance. Raoul sat behind his desk, and Christine shrank into one of the angular chairs on the other side. Maéva was staring at a peculiar-looking desk object. It was a complex-looking set of tiny metal bars, all interconnected, and they were constantly moving, never stopping. She reached out her hand.

"No, Maéva," Christine said sharply. Raoul chuckled.

"Here," he said kindly, pulling out a desk drawer. He withdrew a small plastic basketball and handed it to Maéva. Christine noticed that there was an equally-small hoop attached to the back of the door. It seemed very out of place in the successful, busy, professional setting.

"It helps me think," Raoul said, seeing her bewildered expression. There was a moment of silence while Maéva played with the ball. Then Raoul leaned forward.

"It's good to see you, Christine," he said gently. "It's been a while."

Christine felt tears coming immediately. He handed her a box of soft tissues, and she took it gratefully.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "My god. I'm so, so, so sorry, Raoul."

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice still unbearably soft and kind. "You can tell me."

"I didn't want to come here," she said, needing him to know. "I know I'm not welcome. I know I'm the last person you want to see—I know."

"That's not true," he said. "Tell me what's happened."

She took in a deep, shuddering breath and glanced over at Maéva. She was trying to throw the ball into the hoop, too distracted to pay any attention to them. Christine looked back to Raoul.

"It's Erik," she said quietly.

Raoul's eyes narrowed. "What?" he replied, his voice equally hushed. "What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?"

Christine shook her head, swallowing hard. Staring at her lap, she whispered,

"He killed someone."

The previous month's trip had been nothing but routine. Erik returned around seven in the evening, and Maéva had screamed delightedly at his arrival, bouncing around his ankles. He kissed Christine, and he had then gone to unpack. After he was finished and changed out of his wrinkled clothing, he went to eat a few bites of the dinner Christine had prepared, as he knew she would bother him until he did. Christine carried a basket of laundry to the machine as he ate, intent on catching up on some housework while he was there to keep an eye on Maéva.

She sorted through shirts and pants, the lights and darks, and she came upon one of his fine Oxford shirts, the one he had just changed out of, still somewhat warm from the residual body heat. She frowned a little as she held it up. There was a brownish stain on the forearm of the left sleeve. She touched it lightly. It wasn't all the way dry. When she smelled it, she realized that it was the metallic scent of blood.

Instantly, thinking that he had hurt himself somehow, she clutched the shirt and left the room to find him. Maéva was plunking on the piano.

"Where's Papa?" Christine asked.

Maéva shrugged, pressing down on middle C repeatedly. Christine was about to leave when she spotted something on the table next to his plate of untouched dinner. It was his laptop, and it wasn't closed all the way. She could see light shining from it, meaning the screen was still on. Christine hesitated. She had never seen anything he did on his laptop. It wasn't like she didn't trust him. She did. Christine had simply never had a reason to look through his things. But the fact remained that things were always locked and closed, tucked away, out of sight. She stared, the shirt clenched tightly in her fist.

There were no discernible sounds from upstairs, and so she went over and pulled up the screen.

An internet window was open—some type of strange-looking email system was being displayed. She looked at the conversation. The recipient was simply named N. Erik's was a simple E. (She assumed it was Erik, anyway.)

I need it done today. –N
It will be done. –E

Then there was a picture attached—from Erik to this mystery receiver. Christine looked at it and nearly shrieked. It was a picture of a man spread out on the ground. Dark blood was pooled around his head, his hair wet with it, his face smeared, his eyes closed and his mouth open. She felt sick, and she backed away quickly, gazing in horror at the dead man.

"What's that, Mama?"

Maéva was coming over, wanting to see what was on the screen. Christine slammed the laptop shut.

"It's nothing," she said, her voice tight and shrill. "It's nothing!"

She could hear Erik's footsteps on the stairs. Knowing very well that she couldn't face him, she fled the room and went back to the washing machine, turning it on quickly. She muffled the sound of her sobs with the whirring of the machine. She threw the stained shirt away.

She was sick for two days. Erik worried—he plied her constantly with warm tea and ensured that she rested. She could hardly stand his presence. While she was alone, the plan began to formulate, almost without her consent.

She was leaving.

"Mama, I'm hungry." Maéva was pulling on Christine's sleeve impatiently.

"I know, chouchou," Christine said. "We'll get something soon. Just be patient."

Raoul smiled a little indulgently. "What would you like to eat?" he asked Maéva.

Maéva immediately clutched Christine's arm and watched him before saying shyly, "Candy."

Raoul laughed and said, "We'll see what we can do about that." He looked at Christine and said, "Is there anything in particular you want to eat? You're still vegetarian, right?"

Taken aback just a bit that he remembered, Christine nodded and said, "Yes, but don't worry. You don't have to get food for us. I can easily go get something…"

"This isn't Paris, Christine," he said, smiling. "There isn't a bakery on every corner."

She tried not to be offended, knowing he didn't think she was stupid but still feeling insulted.

"How about some sandwiches?" he said, picking up his phone. "They can get here quickly and it should be something she'll like."

"Are you sure?" she said softly.

"Positive." He smiled at her and then dialed a quick number on his phone, speaking for a few minutes. His English was perfect. Christine remembered that he had excelled at languages. He spoke…four—no, maybe five. She couldn't remember. French, English, Spanish…Italian? German? It was probable. Again, she felt a pang of embarrassment at her lack of language skills. Both Raoul and Erik were so mature, so confident and intelligent. Sometimes she wondered why either of them had ever been interested in her in the first place.

"Your lunch is on the way," Raoul said to Maéva after a moment, and Maéva grinned widely, looking up at Christine and jumping up and down in excitement. She then went back to her ball. Christine looked back to Raoul, who was frowning a little.

"This is going to sound…well," he said. "But hasn't he…uh—hurt other people before? I mean, you told me before that you knew that he…"

Christine shivered a little. "No—no, not for a long time!" she said. "When I agreed to marry him, I told him he couldn't. I told him. I made him promise. I said that if he ever…did that again, I would leave him. And…I have." She wiped away some tears, pulling out another tissue.

"Maybe he thought I wasn't being serious," she continued. "I don't know. But I can't stay with him if he's going to be violent again—especially with Maéva. And the awful thing is that maybe that wasn't the first time…It was just an accident that I found out about this one—he was careless. Maybe it has happened before but I just don't know about it." The dark, tortured thoughts that had tormented her for the past few weeks were spilling out. "And even if this was the first time, I can't let it slide. I can't. He'll think I didn't mean what I said to him, and he'll do it again. I needed to do this—for Maéva."

"And for yourself," Raoul said gently. "You deserve to be safe, too, Christine."

There were a few moments of silence, and then Christine said, the words coming out rushed, thoughts she hadn't expressed to anyone else that needed to come out:

"I didn't know where to go. I thought of maybe hiding somewhere in France…but he's so well-connected there. I wouldn't last a day. And I thought of going to Italy, perhaps, or Germany…But then I thought that it would be easier to hide here in the States. There are so many people. It's such a big country. He doesn't like it here, you know. He said he lived here for a few years and it almost drove him mad. So I was thinking that maybe he doesn't have… 'people' here like he does in Europe. But when I got to New York, I realized that I couldn't…do it. I couldn't do it by myself. I thought I spoke enough English to get by, but then I arrived in New York, and suddenly I didn't know anything. I'm such an idiot for ever thinking I could do it on my own. I don't...I don't know enough about this country to even hide in it."

Raoul was a good, patient listener. His phone rang when she paused, and he picked it up, said some curt words, and put it back.

"Sorry—I told them not to bother me," he said. He stood, walked to what looked to be another desk, and opened the drawers to reveal a small refrigerator. She was grateful when he pulled out a bottle of water and gave it to her.

"Please continue," he said, sitting back down. Maéva had grown tired of being by herself and had clambered into Christine's lap, rolling the ball around and babbling to herself. She then took the water from Christine and drank most of it.

"I didn't want to bother you," Christine said, smoothing Maéva's curls. "I'm sorry, Raoul. I tried not to let myself come here—but you're the only person I know. I just…I won't ask for much. I only need a place to stay for a while, but I can't use my passport, because he'll find me. I have cash—I'll give you everything I have. I'll work for you, I'll do anything you ask me—"

Raoul silenced her with a hand. "Stop, Christine. You know none of that is necessary. Of course I'll help you."

Their lunch arrived a few minutes later, and Maéva squealed happily, stuffing the sandwich into her mouth, hungry just as she had claimed. The food was good. Christine hadn't realized just how hungry she was until she began to eat.

There were a few minutes of silence while they all ate. Maéva insisted on Christine taking a bite of her little sandwich, and she then decided she liked Christine's better and insisted on trading. The little girl then promptly pulled out all vegetables from the sandwich and ate only the bread and cheese. Christine rolled her eyes.

"She's very pretty," Raoul commented. "How old is she?"

"Thanks," Christine said, managing to smile. "She turned three a few months ago. It was such a whirlwind for the first few years. Things were finally starting to settle down, and then…"

"I've always wanted children," Raoul said, still smiling at Maéva (here Christine resisted shifting uncomfortably, as she and Raoul had once joyfully talked about the many children that they would have together). "But Laura doesn't want any—she says the time that our careers take wouldn't be fair to any kids we would have."

Christine remembered with a jolt that Raoul had married a few years ago. Somehow, Erik had gotten his hands on the wedding announcement and had gleefully shown it to her one night, even suggesting that they frame it and hang it up somewhere in the house. That had caused quite an argument.

Raoul looked somewhat wistfully at Maéva once again before sighing. "All right," he said, suddenly sounding rather business-like. "What do you think we should do, Christine? You know better than I do what kind of plan we should have."

Christine swallowed nervously. "I'm sure he knows I came to California. He'll find out you're here, too. He knows…" Her cheeks burned. "He knows that you would help me if I asked."

"Okay. So we have to make it look like you never contacted me at all." Raoul jotted some things down on a notepad. "That should be doable. I just need to find a place for you. I can do that today. I'll have Paul drive you to my house—Laura is home, and she'll help you settle in. I'll get to work and find somewhere for you to go." He looked at her. "Do you know where he is? Is he here in LA as well?"

"I don't think so. Not yet." She had no idea. For all she knew, he was still in France, enjoying the peace and quiet. But her instinct told her that he was close. He was on his way to find her.

Raoul wrote a few more things down on the notepad. "You'll stay just for tonight, then. We have a great security system set up at the house, so you will be safe for one night. And tomorrow we'll move you somewhere else, somewhere you won't have to register or check in on any system."

"Just tell me how much it will cost—" she began, but he cut her off.

"Don't do that, Christine," he said firmly. "I'm glad that you came to me and that I can help you in any way."

Twenty minutes later, after telling Raoul everything she could think of about how Erik might track her, she and Maéva were back in the black car, her backpack safely by her. They drove through Los Angeles, hot and muggy and humid. Maéva was looking out of the window once again.

Christine leaned against the seat and closed her eyes for a moment. They finally had somewhere to go, someone to help them—but she felt no relief whatsoever. Somehow, she felt worse than ever before.