CH 65

Elvira demanded I cover her cage and yelled for me to keep it down while I made myself a cup of coffee. In my distracted state, I misjudged placing my favorite mug on the table and the damned thing shattered when it hit the floor.

A breath rattled through my lungs. The shards of clay strewn throughout the kitchen and coffee soaked into the rug were the proverbial last straws I could possibly bear. Unable to tolerate another mishap, I wanted to smash my kitchen table with the chair and throw a tantrum that most certainly would have had me committed inside the nearest asylum.

Instead I counted to ten, knelt and mopped up coffee with a rag while picking out the ceramic pieces and cursing myself in silence for a preventable mishap.

It wasn't so much the mess that left me fuming, but the broken mug had been a gift from Elizabeth when she had come to visit me shortly after I started teaching. Professor Raitt, who exclusively taught ceramics and weaving, allowed my young niece into his studio where we were taught how to make bowls. Mine was no great work of art, but Elizabeth's was so poorly constructed that there was a hole in the bottom of it. After convincing her to allow me to help repair it, she asked to include a handle, thus creating a very large mug that could have held an entire bowl of my favorite soup. It was the perfect vessel for a large amount of coffee.

But naturally, the morning after one of the worst nights of my life, the mug had shattered into dozens of small pieces that could not be put back together. I wasn't sure if Elizabeth was aware I'd not only kept the coffee bowl, as I affectionately called it, but I hated to think that I'd been distracted enough to break a prized possession from my niece.

It was nearing six-thirty by the time I had the rug scrubbed and hanging to dry and my body could not tolerate another moment of being awake. My arm still throbbed, however, and although it felt as if someone had sprinkled sand into my eyes, I could not keep them shut. Every time I moved, I seemed to brush my bandaged arm on the mattress or my pillow, jerking me back awake. The pain was unmanageable, worse than it had ever been in the thirty-two years I'd lived with the scar. I wanted to unwrap my forearm and examine the wound, but knew it was better off left covered.

With my mind racing, I wondered if Erik was still awake or if he'd exhausted himself into a state of unconsciousness as I should have done hours earlier. The alarms in the theater district had died down, the world outside of my closed apartment windows a soft murmur of city life while my thoughts continue to roar.

Breathe, I told myself as I removed my shirt and trousers, thankful I was already in bed clothes. As much as I wanted to continue roaming the streets, I felt less than confident I'd have the energy to walk back.

If I can't sleep, at least I could try to rest my erratic mind, I reasoned.

My heart rate was still elevated, but I slid beneath the covers and used one of the pillows to cover my eyes rather than look around the bedroom and find myself further distracted. Once I was able to settle a bit, I pictured Erik at the age of three, the two of us running wild and unchecked through the woods we had claimed as our own. We were filthy; legs caked in muck, dirt beneath our fingernails, and sand against our sweaty scalps. Our bronzed arms were covered in bug bites, our knees scraped, and neither of us could have been happier.

We had not a single care aside from whether or not our forts still stood or mounds of sand on the beach survived the tide. The two of us scurried up trees and waded through the stream, imaginations taking us to far off places in the fantasies we created.

I could visualize Erik running ahead of me, looking over his shoulder, laughing so hard that he couldn't breathe. He wanted desperately to beat me to the top of the hill, to be able to declare himself a champion. I would grab him around his calves and pull him toward me while he clawed at the sand, desperate for purchase. The two of us would roll down several feet, both of us gasping for air, swatting at one another, and grinning like mad fools.

No! Lan! Stop it!

You stop it, Kire.

You started it, Lan! You're cheating.

You are the cheater, Kire. You took off before I counted to three. This is the only way to make it fair.

Count to three again!

One, I would say, and he would laugh in devilish delight, shoving me with both hands before he scrambled ahead of me. Sometimes I restrained myself and allowed him to win, other times I was the victor.

No matter who was the champion, we stood at the top of the hill until sunset, watching the light fade until the red, pinks, and golds turned to evening blue and we had about twenty minute to scramble home before darkness cloaked the woods.

Sometimes we would sit for a while when the moon was full and watch the waves glimmer beneath silver light, and Erik would ask me where the moon went during the day.

It's visible on occasion.

Really?

Yes, you can still see the moon when it's light out depending on different factors.

What factors?

The different moon phases.

What does that mean?

You know, when it's full or half or you can only see that little sliver of it in the sky.

When was the moon last visible in the sky during the day, Lan?

A week ago, I think? Remember? You asked me how many moons there are.

Oh, yeah. You told me there was only one, but I forgot. The moon is always there. I sometimes can't see it, but it's there.

With his need to always be touching me, Erik would put his sweaty, filthy head on my shoulder and I'd put my arm around him as we talked about mud, spiders, and why birds sometimes chose to defecate in flight and almost on us. They were the most perfect and simple conversations, ones that I thought would last forever.

My heart grew heavier for all of the moments stolen from me. We had not been able to see one another, but we lived in the same city, presumably for years. For all I knew, he'd walked past my building hundreds of times or around the university campus unbeknownst to me.

It was maddening to think how close we had come to seeing each other. Perhaps if I had left home five minutes earlier or agreed to the monthly staff dinner at the campus and returned late we would have bumped into one another.

I took a deep breath and pictured the two of us sitting at the top of the hill, legs bent, knees touching, Erik leaning over so that his face was in mine as he spoke.

Lan, Lan, Lan I heard his high-pitched voice in my mind, the insistent beckoning of a young child who thought I wasn't listening if I dared to look away for a second.

"Yes, Kire, I'm listening," I murmured aloud, comforted by the thought of him. "Tell me more. Tell me everything."

His words were a jumble in my mind, little bits of conversations that could have been real or conjured in my aching, desperate, dissatisfied brain.

My thoughts turned to pleasant, vivid dreams of a time that no longer existed. I swore I felt the sunlight on my face and neck, the warmth I hadn't felt since the last time I'd forced myself to visit the beach again.

The clock on the mantel ticked above the fireplace and I yawned, swaddled in the warmth of my blanket and unusual heat against my face that was incredibly comfortable.

Slowly I became aware of my dry throat, then my arm aching again, and my mind groggy. For a long moment I remained with my eyes covered by the cool pillow case, clinging to the last shred of peace before I sat up.

My bedroom faced west, and in my dioriented state of mind, I couldn't comprehend how it was so bright given that it was morning. Turning over, I yawned and sat up, reaching for my watch that was still not wound.

Venturing into the living room, I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock over the fireplace, staring for a full minute until there was no denying what had happened.

It was four in the afternoon, which was completely beyond my comprehension as I'd rarely slept past four in the morning. The first sign of daylight usually roused me, but somehow, with the pillow over my eyes, I'd managed ten hours of sleep.

Panic slowly set in as I realized the entire day had been wasted. I should have been out looking for Erik. I should have–

"Oh God," I said under my breath. "Marco." I gasped, my gaze darting around my apartment. "Elizabeth."

Not only had I missed painting with Marco and Hugo, but I'd promised Elizabeth a matinee performance. Given what had happened the previous evening, I assumed Elizabeth would forgive me, but Hugo? He would be furious with me. Marco, I assumed, would not be surprised, given that I'd not taken the opportunity to speak to him in the theater lobby.

I wiped my hand down my face and tore off my pajama shirt in favor of a lawn shirt before I uncovered Elvira and opened the door to her enclosure.

"I am so sorry, my sweet. How terribly thoughtless of me to leave you in there all day," I said as I changed into trousers, tossing my pajamas into the bedroom where they landed on the end of the bed.

Thankfully Elvira didn't appear concerned as she leisurely strolled from her cage and walked down the wire sides to the ground. I hastily filled her bowl with an assortment of nuts and a few snails, of which there were plenty, and started to ask if she wanted to go for another walk when a fist pounded on my door.

"Phelan! Phelan, are you in there?"

Val's frantic voice came as a surprise. Brow furrowed, I walked to the front door, and Val nearly fell into the foyer before I had it fully opened.

"Phelan," he said, sighing in relief as he gripped my shoulders. "Oh, praise God you're alive." He drew back and looked me over from head to toe. "And unscathed, it appears."

Not nearly as unscathed as I would have liked, but I was at least in one piece.

"You have just now started to look for me?" I asked, regretting my snide tone.

"I came here last night, right after I heard the commotion. I must have waited for an hour, but you never returned."

"I noticed you and Carmen left the performance early."

Val exhaled and nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid Carmen was too tired to sit through three acts. By the time we reached home, there were dozens of alarms going off at once, but we had no idea why until one of the neighbors informed us that the so-called Phantom set fire to the opera house."

I didn't reply to his words, preferring to see what Val knew or speculated before I answered.

"Were you there until the end?" Val asked.

"Until the performance abruptly ended? Yes."

"Did you see what happened?"

"Some of it."

"I heard that The Phantom nearly shot several people in the audience before he set fire to the stage."

The events were already far more twisted than I would have thought. "Is that what you heard?"

Val readily nodded, clearly quite invested in the sensationalism of the night. "Yes, I heard he had two pistols on him and began firing into the audience."

"Who told you that?" I asked.

"I overheard some of the gendarmes talking about it outside of the opera house this morning."

"You returned to the opera house?"

"Yes, of course I returned out of fear that you had not made it out alive. I looked for your name on the list of the missing, dead, and wounded, but you were not on any of them. I added you to the missing and was told I could go down the street to the church where they had unclaimed bodies, but…" His expression darkened. "Truthfully I don't have the stomach for that, I'm afraid. I left a description of you with the officers on duty."

"How many dead?" I asked. In all of the melee, it was impossible to tell how many individuals had perished.

"Dozens?" Val guessed. "I have no idea, but there are at least twenty wounded, the majority of them employees of the theater and a few gendarmes from what I understand."

"That is unfortunate," I said quietly.

"They're searching for the bastard as we speak. Every single gendarme in all of Paris, some from smaller towns have also arrived, and the military–"

"The military?"

"Yes, of course. He's a cold-blooded killer, Phelan, a mastermind who must be stopped before he murders more people. Just wait until the official details come out in the evening post."

The panic would be widespread, the hunt for Erik continuing night and day until he was found and brought to justice or he fled Europe altogether.

Back to Persia, I wondered? It was doubtful as I didn't believe he was wanted there either. The further he traveled, however, the more difficult it would be to locate him.

"Val, I can tell you for certain that the man known as The Phantom of the Opera was not armed."

"That is not what I heard."

"Well, that is what I saw with my own two eyes, not hearsay."

"What you thought you saw."

I blinked at him. "I know what I saw."

"In such moments of stress, it is possible for our eyes to play tricks on us."

I scoffed at his words. "Honestly, I should not be surprised that you're still combative over a fact I can confirm having witnessed the events that unfolded last night after you left."

"Then how do you explain the fire? I was told The Opera Ghost had a substantial amount of explosives at his disposal."

"The fire started from the chandelier, not the stage."

Val narrowed his eyes. "Dynamite," he said under his breath. "Of course, he had the chandelier loaded like a bomb with the intention of killing everyone, himself included by the sound of it."

"No, Val, a bullet from one of the gendarmes struck the chandelier. The officer must have inadvertently hit a gas line. It wa an accident and nothing more."

Val crossed his arm. "I will wait for the post to be delivered to confirm the details."

His insistence on disagreeing with me grated on my nerves. "How is Carmen?" I asked, attempting to change the subject.

Val frowned. "Not well. She's been in bed all day."

That made two of us for very different reasons.

"How often does she spend full days in bed?" I asked.

"Five days a week?" he guessed. "It used to be less frequent. The last few months have been…difficult, and the stress of this disaster has not been easy on her. I promised I would return with news of your whereabouts before dinner."

"Is there nothing to be done to make Carmen more comfortable?"

"Laudanum helps to an extent, but there is no cure."

"Then perhaps you should consider spending less time with your mistress and more time with your wife," I muttered.

Val blinked at me. Without another word, he turned on his heel and briskly walked out the door, which he slammed behind him.

I exhaled, placed my hands on my hips, and regretted my words. Val had come to my apartment out of concern and I'd specifically chosen my words to anger him.

"Damn it," I muttered, frustrated with myself.

Grabbing my keys and my coat, I quickly laced my shoes and walked out the door, intending to catch up to Val or follow him all the way home if need be.

I nearly ended up knocking him down a flight of stairs as he paced outside of my apartment door, chest heaving and face twisted in anger.

"You have a lot of gall to speak to me that way," he said. "Thirty-five years old, unmarried, no relationships that have ever lasted longer than a few hours, at most. No children–at least not that you've claimed–and God knows you could have dozens of bastard sons and daughters out there with all of the women you've treated like whores." Immediately he was in my face, his chest to mine, the look on his face filled with so much malice that I knew he wished to strike me. "You. You have absolutely nothing in your life. Nothing at all."

I didn't argue with Val. I never did. Whatever he wished to say to me, I would listen. If he wished to strike me, I wouldn't strike him back.

"If I had what you had, I would not squander it."

"You do not know how difficult it is to return after a long day to someone who writhes in agony, who tosses and turns all night, moaning. I cannot do anything for Carmen but watch her suffer and I cannot bear to see her in such a state."

"You think you are being compassionate by leaving her alone while you entertain another woman?"

"I think it is hard enough for her already and I don't want to make it more difficult by wringing my hands like some helpless fool."

"If it was Elizabeth bed-ridden and her husband in the arms of another woman instead of his wife, would you be angry on your daughter's behalf?"

Val's expression sobered.

"You would not wish that upon Eliza, Val. I don't understand how you could possibly treat Carmen, your wife of seventeen years and the mother of your beloved daughter, the way you have. Carmen and Elizabeth deserve better of you and you know it. Be there for your wife, you coward."

Val shoved his index finger into my chest and started to speak, but the door at the bottom of the stairs swung open and footsteps pounded up the first set of stairs, then the second.

Elizabeth appeared a moment later, flustered with her cheeks red and hair flying in all directions. She looked at Val, then at me, and gasped before she covered her face and burst into tears. Almost immediately her legs gave out and she sat on the landing, sobbing into her cupped hands.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Val grumbled.

"Eliza?" I said, reaching her first. "What is wrong?"

She fanned herself briefly, then stood and flung her arms around me. "Papa said you were dead," she wept into my shoulder.

I hugged her back, feeling her shaking in almost violent fashion as she was overcome with emotion.

"Now, Elizabeth, I didn't say Uncle Phelan was dead, I said he had not yet been found and I was worried," Val said.

"You thought he was dead." Elizabeth continued to sob, hyperventilating with each harsh breath. "Uncle Phelan, when you didn't show up for our matinee I was certain you were trapped in the opera house."

"I'm here," I said softly. "You needn't cry, my darling girl. My apologies for worrying you."

All of a sudden she was six years old and clinging to me as she had once done, always climbing out of her mother's lap and into mine because I was bigger and able to swallow her up in my grasp.

"I was going to run to the opera house and dig you out if you were not home," she said, her words muffled with her face buried against my shoulder. "Even if it took months, I would have dug you out of the rubble."

I couldn't help but smile to myself. Elizabeth had never been one to tolerate mud on her hands or a drop of rain on her head. I couldn't imagine her digging through rock to find me, but it was a nice thought after all of the stress I had endured.

"I could not bear the aching in my heart if you were gone forever," Elizabeth said. She sat back and dried her eyes with her sleeve. "Shame on that horrid Phantom. I hope he is dead in the rubble for worrying me so. Good riddance to him."

"Eliza." I helped her to her feet. "That is not kind of you to say."

"But he's a monster, Uncle Phelan, a monster that should pay for what he has done."

I was certain that Elizabeth's words echoed the thoughts of everyone else in Paris. There would be few if any sympathizers with my ghostly brother. As much as I wanted to tell Elizabeth it was not our place to judge The Phantom, I felt Val carefully studying me.

"Elizabeth, we should return home," Val said, extending his hand to his daughter.

"But, Papa, Uncle Phelan–"

"Is clearly fine," Val insisted. "Besides, your mother needs your company more than your uncle."

Elizabeth frowned at her father's words, but I nodded in agreement. "I'm certain your mother would prefer having both of you home with her."

"Papa, I hope you don't need to be at the office again today," Elizabeth said. "You're there practically every weekend."

"Every weekend?" I questioned. "It does sound as though your father is needed at home with his family. Being at the office can wait, can't it, Val?"

Val narrowed his eyes and turned his attention to me. "I will be home for the duration of the weekend," he promised.

"Good," Elizabeth replied, turning to face me. "It would be nice to have you at game night this weekend. And Uncle Phelan, you should bring Madame Soward again so the three of us can be on the same team."

"If she's available," I said, motioning her down the stairs. "If not, you might be stuck with me."

"I would welcome being stuck with you, Uncle."

We reached the street and I hugged Eliza one last time before Val took her by the arm.

"I will see you tomorrow?" Elizabeth questioned.

"I will try my best to attend," I said, "but it's the end of the school year and I have quite a bit of planning for the annual spring art show."

For once, Elizabeth seemed satisfied by my words and said her final good-bye before Val practically dragged her away. I watched them briefly before I crossed the street, heading in the same direction as them toward Hugo's home, but having no desire to be in Val's company a moment longer.

I stopped by the Danish bakery first, which was completely out of coffee considering it was nearly dinner time.

"I can make a fresh pot," the owner's wife offered.

Given that I was wasting time, I declined.

"Tea?" she offered.

Tea was never my first choice, but given that I'd not had anything to drink all day, I agreed and purchased a muffin once my stomach started to growl. Once I downed my cup of tea, I was on my way. Val and Elizabeth were out of my sight by the time I exited the shop and turned the corner, heading toward Hugo's home. I ate half the muffin, crumbled the rest in the paper bag and scattered it in the park for the birds, and briskly continued further into the residential area.

It wasn't until I stood on Hugo's porch that I began dreading what I anticipated was going to be a conversation I didn't enjoy. I knocked twice, took a step back, and waited for him to make his way to the door.

Moments passed and there was no answer. I knocked again, this time calling his name until at last I heard the thump of his crutches down the hall and to the door.

"Phelan," Hugo said, sounding surprised to see me.

"I didn't forget," I blurted out.

Hugo frowned at me, his unkempt eyebrows knit together. "Come inside."

I accepted his offer and walked into the foyer where I peered inside the parlor. In the midst of the piles of boxes and other items were three easels set up in a half-circle. Someone sat behind the furthest one and I paused, staring at the pair of legs.

"Marco?" I questioned.

Marco leaned to the side, gazing past the easel at me until I realized that it wasn't him at all, but another man I'd never seen before with dark eyes and waves of dark hair that showed a bit of gray at the temples.

"Forgive me," the man said. "I'm afraid you were expecting someone else."

"Augie, this is my friend Phelan," Hugo said.

Immediately the other man's eyes widened and he shot to his feet. "Phelan? Phelan Kimmer? Hugo has told me so much about you. What a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur."

I was certain Hugo had never mentioned anyone by the name of Augie, but I smiled politely and shook his hand despite feeling overwhelmingly disappointed that he was not Marco.

"Hugo has never mentioned me, has he?" Augie asked.

I stammered for an appropriate reply, but found no suitable words. "I have a terrible memory when it comes to names."

"You don't have to cover for him, Monsieur." Augie sighed and shook his head at Hugo. "And here I thought I was your favorite student, Hugo. You've made a fool of me," he said lightly.

"I told at least one student a year that they were my favorite. Unfortunately I don't recall saying that to you, Augustus."

Augie feigned insult. "You wound my heart, Professor Duarte."

"You're one of Hugo's former students?" I asked.

"Yes, from almost twenty years ago," Augie said as he crossed his arms. "I am visiting from out of town and took in a play last night, but of course had to pay a visit to my dear old professor. I assume you heard what happened at one of the opera houses?"

"I did."

"Phelan had tickets to last night's performance," Hugo mentioned.

Augie's eyes widened. His face was quite lined for someone I thought had to be around my age, but he still looked like a living Greek statue with the slope of hsn nose, set of his jaw, and the way his hair fell around his face.

"Was it as bad as they're saying?" Augie asked, his tone grim.

Worse, I wanted to say. Worse because everyone throughout the city wanted the nameless villain brought to justice, to be scorned and ridiculed. Perhaps the desire to see The Phantom suffer was justified. Perhaps he should have paid for his part in the disaster as he'd gone about slamming sandbags and scenery onto the stage and the wings, creating more chaos that had led to gunshots fired.

But The Phantom was not purely a beast or a monster. He was someone who had grown up very much alone, confined to a cellar for years, serving as an outlet for his drunken father's rage.

What other choice did he have with the hand he'd been dealt in life? Of course he had made poor decisions.

"I tend to disregard rumors," I replied.

Augie nodded in agreement. "Ah, well, I suppose I will wait until the post arrives and collect the facts from the printed page. I must be on my way. My train leaves this evening and I have a few more appointments before I return to Greece."

"Augie, thank you so much for stopping by today," Hugo said. "Next time bring your brushes and paint with me."

"Of course, that would be lovely. And by all means give Marco my address when you pass on my critique of his work. If he's ever in Patras for holiday, he should come by for dinner. My wife and son would be pleased to meet him and I'd be very honored to host a fellow artist." Augie turned to me again. "Good evening to you, Monsieur. A pleasure making your acquaintance."

Augie saw himself out while I wandered to the other side of the easels and had a look at the three canvases. Two had the start of portraits while the third–the one reserved for me–was blank.

"Is this what you started today?" I asked.

"Yes."

"You made a lot of progress on portraits."

Hugo made his way toward me, every step with his crutches slow and careful. "Marco was here for about four hours this morning. We had quite a lot of time to work on our paintings."

"What time did he leave?" I asked.

"Noon. Marco tried to stay as long as he could, but he had other duties that needed his attention and simply could not wait around for the possibility that you showed up."

I winced at Hugo's words. "I feel terrible."

Hugo lowered onto the stool, groaning as he adjust his missing leg with the remnants of his knee on a velvet stool with a tufted cushion that prevented the leg from dangling.

"Do you feel terrible?" he asked.

"Yes, of course I do."

"Marco mentioned that he saw you last night running toward the stage after there were pistols fired."

The conversation with Val had left me second-guessing myself, and I realized the night was starting to become a blur. All I knew for certain was that I'd seen Erik and he had disappeared through a trap door with Christine Daae. The rest of the events felt like I'd navigated a fever dream.

"It was surreal," I replied. "I've never witnessed anything so chaotic in my life and certainly hope I live the rest of my life without experiencing another disaster."

"Marco told me that while he was attempting to usher his mother to safety, he glanced back and saw that the gendarmes directing people to safety. I asked if he was aware of whether or not you escaped and he told me that you disregarded their instructions and continued to the stage."

"I don't remember the gendarmes directing people anywhere, but I assume they were assisting the crowd," I answered honestly, having no memory of what Marco described to Hugo. My focus had been on Erik and only Erik.

Hugo's expression turned grim. "Then let me ask you another question. Do you remember seeing Marco in the lobby during intermission? I believe it was the second one of the night?"

I stared at Hugo for a dreadfully long moment, guessing what he would say to me. "Yes, I do."

Hugo rubbed his hand down his face and sniffed. "Marco said you were with three of your students."

"Yes, I was speaking to them about the opera ghost, actually."

"But you didn't say a word to Marco?"

My lips parted, but I didn't know what to say that would prevent me from seeming like a feckless idiot.

"Marco walked up to you," Hugo prompted.

"He was walking past us, yes."

"And he stopped in front of you? Quit avoiding the question and answer me, Phelan."

I averted my gaze. "Yes, I suppose he did."

"Why do you think that he stopped there?"

I grit my teeth, but didn't reply.

"Hmm," Hugo said. He crossed his arms when he looked at me. "Phelan, I have no desire to scold or lecture you, but I will say that Marco didn't want to admit his feelings on the matter, but it was evident he was very upset and for good reason. He walked up to you–"

"He didn't say anything either," I said defensively.

"Ah. So this is his fault?"

"That is not what I am saying."

"But still you waited for him to initiate the conversation rather than inviting him into the discussion?"

I exhaled, feeling more and more agitated. "I wanted to wait until today."

Hugo searched my face for a long moment. "Phelan, you and I both know you are making excuses and poor ones at that. You claim that you are eager to speak to him. Do not pretend that you were merely waiting for today to have a conversation with your son for the first time in seventeen years."

"I am not making up excuses," I said, my voice raised.

"No?" Hugo frowned at me, his disappointment visible in his expression. "Marco is not a little boy who can wait around."

"I understand that he is no longer a small child."

"Do you understand that he is almost an adult and has never had a father in his life?"

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to admit that you expected your teenage son to initiate the conversation with you, a man in his thirties, whom he worked up the nerve to approach only to be treated like he was not even there?"

"It wasn't…it wasn't like that."

Hugo exhaled hard. "For Christ's sake, I cannot tell if you are truly this stupid or you cannot be truthful with yourself."

"I don't understand why you think I am lying."

"You do not want to be this boy's father," Hugo snapped.

"Hugo." I felt myself inhale sharply. "I do want to be part of his life."

"You have made zero effort to be involved. Twice now he has attempted to approach you."

"Twice?"

"You truly don't remember, do you? Once at the art gallery and then again last night. This boy has put forth more effort than you have in hopes of garnering your attention and you've squandered both opportunities."

The world felt as though it slipped through my fingers, first with Erik and again with Marco. "It wasn't on purpose," I said.

"Your actions speak for themselves, Phelan. I will make no apologies for pointing out what I have seen from you," Hugo said.

"You're angry with me?"

"Do you want me to speak to you honestly?"

"Yes," I said. "Of course I do."

"Fine. Yes, yes I am furious with you. I am not only angry, but incredibly disappointed." He looked away from me and sighed. "I am glad that you made it out of the fire alive, but I do wish you had made it this morning or sent word that you were…preoccupied with something of greater importance than your own son."

Anger scorched through me. "What do you think I was doing?" I asked.

"I have no idea."

"You said you would be honest with me, so be honest with me, Hugo. What would you have assumed I was doing?" I angrily questioned.

I wasn't sure if Hugo would back down from the conversion or continue, but he seemed annoyed and I felt far from satisfied by his accusations.

Hugo blew air past his lips. "I would assume you returned to your apartment accompanied by the lady on your arm and made quite the night and morning o your time together."

"You will be quite disappointed to know that Abigail did not attend the opera with me last night," I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"She was not available when I paid a visit to her residence," I stated. "The shop was dark, as was her apartment above. I waited an hour to see if she would return, which she did not, at which time I attended alone. I am certain this news surprises you given that you assumed I skipped this morning to entertain a female companion."

"Is she unwell?" Hugo questioned.

"I have no idea."

"You haven't checked on her?"

"No," I said. "Assuming she did not want to see me yesterday, I plan on paying a visit tomorrow."

"I certainly hope she is not sick or injured."

I took a breath. "Considering everything that occurred last night, it is probably for the best that she decided to..." Break things off? I wasn't sure what to call her dismissal.

"I've only heard Augie's account of the events and he was not in attendance. He said that they were corralled outside of the theater for quite some time while the firemen arrived from every corner of the city." Hugo shook his head. "Forgive my rude assumptions. My worry from this morning has melded into anger on Marco's behalf."

"It has been an extraordinarily long twenty-three hours," I mumbled.

Hugo frowned at me. "Did you see him? The Phantom, I mean to say?"

"Yes, I saw him, He was on the stage."

"Praise God the ruthless madman did not shoot you dead."

"You sound like Val," I muttered.

"Should I think the ghost a saint?"

"He may not be a saint, but I can assure you he was not armed, either."

"Judging by all I have heard, it sounds as though he did not need a pistol to kill."

"Perhaps he is like Medusa with snakes turning his enemies to stone?" I snapped.

Hugo gave me a strange look. "Would you care to enlighten me on what you witnessed?"

I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, attempting to lessen my frustration before I took it out on Hugo. "I saw a hooded figure, whose identity was revealed by the woman playing the female lead. She pulled off the hood, and it was then that the audience could see he was masked. The order was given to apprehend him. Shots were fired, the masked man drew the woman closer to him, and she proceeded to remove the mask and a wig he wore. Beneath the costume was a man whose face made the entire front orchestra section shriek in horror of his appearance."

Hugo's eyes narrowed, his expression sobering.

"And there he stood, while the audience attempted to flee."

"Did you get a good look at him?" Hugo asked.

I nodded in silence. Hugo leaned forward, his head turned slightly to the side as he waited for me to elaborate. "A face I will not soon forget."

"Did you recognize him?"

"Yes," I replied. "It was Erik."