Chapter 19

The night dredged on, eventually giving way to a fragile dawn, and soon the house with filled with the dull gray light of a cold, wintry morning. A weak storm front had blown in overnight, and a thin smattering of snow now covered the ground and dusted the tree branches. The clouds hung low and gloomy in the air, their heavy appearance a silent threat that more was on the way.

It was a good day to curl up under the covers and hide away from the world, presumably with a good book. But the Opera Ghost currently had my e-reader, and it was that horrifying thought that kept me from wanting to get out of bed and go downstairs, afraid of the state I'd find him in.

My heart clenched. How could I have been so careless? It would have only taken a few seconds to check what I'd been reading before I handed to him. A few precious seconds and he would never have had to know about the awful way he had been portrayed in that book. While there was no denying that Erik had done some truly egregious things in his past and needed to own up to the mistakes he'd made, this was probably the worst possible way it could happen.

Then again, maybe I was just being over-protective. Maybe he knew exactly what was in there and none of it would come as a surprise at all.

I sighed, scrubbing my face with the palms of my hands. The past twenty-four hours felt so surreal. Erik's gesture to help me off the stool, finding out that my boss was my blind date, the seductive dream I'd had, and the startling revelation that I might be falling in love with a ghost—all of it felt like I had traversed from one dream world and into another. Would I go downstairs only to find that it was still Saturday and that none of it had actually happened?

Groaning, I turned on my side and pulled the covers over my head. Deep down, I knew I couldn't avoid the situation forever and the thought of Erik struggling to deal with the aftermath of my stupid decision was what ultimately forced me out of bed.

The wave of hostility hit me the minute I set foot on the stairs. The air pulsed around me, thick and practically thrumming with pent up emotions and aggression that were as tangible as they were terrifying. I didn't need to see Erik to know that he was in a foul mood. I could sense it—feel it—with every fiber of my being.

I found him pacing back and forth in the small walkway between the couch and the staircase, and from his disheveled appearance it looked like he had been at it for hours. At some point he'd flung his cloak over one of the armchairs and untied his bow tie. The top two buttons of his white collared shirt were open, exposing the pale white skin at the base of his throat.

Erik spun around as the stairs creaked beneath me and alerted him to my presence. His eyes blazed with anger and the look of pure malevolence he shot me cemented my feet firmly to the dingy Persian-style carpet runner. I swallowed, hard, and desperately tried not to look like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Lies!" he spat venomously. "That vile piece of literature is filled with nothing but abhorrent lies!"

My fingers tightened around the banister.

"A coffin! A coffin, Christine! Is it not enough that I look like a corpse? Must I smell and…and… sleep like one as well? My god!" He raked his fingers through his dark hair. "How much more humiliation and shame must I suffer?"

"Oh, Erik."

"Stop!" he cried. "Don't say another word! It's bad enough that that pathetic excuse of an author saw fit to strip me of the little pride and dignity I had left. I don't want your pity. I can't…."

His voice cracked and the sound of his pained anguish tore my heart in two. He twisted away from me, hunching over so that he could shield his masked face from my view.

I bounded down the rest of the stairs in a flash.

"Erik, look at me." I slid my hand through the crook of his elbow and tugged gently. "Look at me."

"Don't," he begged in a strangled whisper, shrugging out of my grasp.

The situation was delicate, calling for a certain amount of tenderness and empathy. I needed to tread carefully. Unfortunately, his unspoken accusation that I was just like all the others and couldn't possibly understand how he felt stung more than I cared to admit, and that rejection instantly ignited a spark of resentment in the pit of my stomach, causing my wounded pride to flare to the surface in an uncontainable ball of fiery rage.

"Now, wait just a goddamn minute!" I said, the hurt now plainly evident in my voice. Lunging forward, I grabbed his sleeve and forcefully yanked him back toward me. "There's a difference between pitying someone and trying to show that person some compassion!"

In one fell swoop, Erik swiveled all the way around and caught me by the shoulders.

"A difference?" he snarled as he dug his thin fingers into my arms and hauled me closer to him. Acting on sheer instinct, I put my hands on his chest and attempted to distance myself from his sudden wrath, which was now directed entirely at me. "You know nothing about what I've had to endure in my lifetime. Nothing at all! The pitying glances. The revulsion. The horror, the fear, the mindless obedience that stems from not daring to cross me…that is frightened deference, not compassion!"

Our faces were only inches apart now, close enough that I would have been able to feel his breath on my lips had he been alive. Close enough to see the wild, slightly unhinged look in his eyes. I should have been terrified. Any person with even a shred of common sense would have immediately retreated and apologized at this point, but not me. Oh no, not me. I'd never been one to back down from a fight, and I sure as hell wasn't about to start now. Especially when he was twisting my words in all the wrong ways.

Clenching my jaw, I planted my feet and angled my head back to glare up at him defiantly.

"Don't you dare lump me in with the rest of them!" I fired back. "I get that you've had a rough past and that you have trust issues because of it. But not everyone is out to get you! Damn it, I thought I'd proven that to you by now. Being concerned that you're hurting and wanting to be there to comfort you isn't pity, Erik. You're my friend. I care that you're upset. I was just trying to show you that."

Erik's hands went slack, but his fingers lingered on my upper arms. Through that subtle contact I felt all the fight drain out of him. Defeated, his shoulders sagged, and he let his head drop. I held my breath, almost certain that he was going to rest his forehead against mine, but he stopped short and the disappointment that I felt in that moment was absolutely suffocating.

"That book would have you believe that I did not possess one ounce of decency or humanity," he whispered. "That I killed without a thought merely because…because I found pleasure in it." He made a small choking sound. "He made me a monster."

He was right; Leroux hadn't held anything back when he had cast Erik as the villain of the story. On the page, Erik's actions and mannerisms had been designed to create a stark contrast to those of the protagonists. Black and white. Good versus evil. In the book, Erik's only redeeming quality was his change of heart at the end. In person, the real man was infinitely more complex, colored more in complicated shades of gray than the absolutes of black and white.

"I don't think you're a monster," I said quietly after a long pause.

Erik squeezed his eyes shut.

"I can't change what's printed on those pages," I went on, "but I can tell you that, from what I've seen, what's in there doesn't completely match up to the man I know." I slid my hands from their defensive position on his chest and gently folded them around his upper arms, mirroring his grip, only softer. "I have no way of knowing which parts are true and which parts the author made up or embellished simply to shock his readers and sell more books. Only you can tell me what really happened."

He slowly lifted his head as I gave his left arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"Please? Help me understand."

Erik withdrew from my grasp and stepped back. He stood there for a moment, his shoulders tense with indecision, before he passed his hands over his head to smooth down his hair, ending the sweeping motion by tugging down the hem of his waistcoat.

"I did not sleep in a coffin," he said at length once he had regained his composure. "Or anything else so macabre. I had a bed like any other normal man. Although I rarely used it."

"And the…the murders?"

I really didn't want to hear the answer to that question, but I had to. If we were ever going to make any headway in helping him cross over, we both had to be willing to confront the topics we'd been avoiding.

"I'm not going to lie to you and pretend they never happened. I warned you from the start that I am a dangerous man, Christine. There's no sense in denying it. I killed to survive. Thanks to the ever-incessant gossiping of the corps de ballet, my reputation as the temperamental, avenging, and merciless Opera Ghost quickly swelled out of proportion, and I am not ashamed to admit that I let it. Their fear gave me respect and a wide berth that I wouldn't have had otherwise."

I bit the inside of my bottom lip, too afraid that if I moved or said anything, he would clam up and the rare glimpse I was getting into his past would be shuttered away again.

"Buquet stumbled upon my torture chamber. His death was an accident, but that didn't stop me from using it as a warning to others to keep away. The chandelier I have no excuse for. By that time, I had let my jealousy and rage take over. I wasn't thinking about anything other than my injured pride."

"What about Raoul and the Persian?"

He sighed. "The Daroga was an unintended victim. I warned him time and time again to keep away, but unfortunately, he failed to heed my advice and insisted on meddling in my affairs. I should have known that he would never be able to fully set aside the inquisitive nature that came along with police work. Always the detective, he aligned himself with the Vicomte and pursued me relentlessly, determined to prove that I was holding Mademoiselle Daaé against her will.

"Chagny, on the other hand…. I would not have regretted his death. That man infuriated me! With his perfect face and his perfect upbringing. He had everything at his disposal and yet at the same time he was utterly clueless of how fortunate he was to possess any of it. Wealth, status, love," he sneered, "everything was laid out at his feet without a second thought, while I had had to resort to threats, extortion, and grandiose demonstrations of my power to get anything I wanted." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "And Christine was just as dazzled by him as everyone else."

"That's not entirely fair, Erik."

His eyes narrowed, resentment and indignation darkening his pupils.

"What's not fair? Please. Enlighten me, Christine. I'm dying to know how being born into privilege and status gives him the unfair advantage."

Ignoring his sarcasm, I explained, "Christine and Raoul weren't just lovers. They were childhood friends. They grew up together. The closeness they shared had developed between them long before she met you, and like it or not, that has a lot of bearing on their relationship."

Erik folded his arms across his chest. "I fail to see your point."

I repressed a sigh. Good hell, he could be so petulant at times. Sometimes it took everything I had not to reach out and smack him upside the head. Ghost or not.

"No, you don't. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Both you and Raoul had something in common when it came to Christine." I immediately raised my hand, cutting off his retort. "Don't get pissy. Just listen. You used her father's story of the Angel of Music as a way to get closer to her. Raoul was a tangible link to her past. Both of you gave her something she was desperately craving. Memories of happier times with her father. You said it yourself, her father was her entire world. And take it from someone who lost her father not so long ago, that hurt doesn't just go away overnight. I'd give anything to be able to hug my mom and dad one more time. I think that's why I held onto what me and Ben had for so long, even when it was clear he no longer loved me."

"I…." He stopped and exhaled a long breath. "I have had a lot of time over the past century to contemplate my motivations and the repercussions of my actions. But this…I had never considered any of you just said before. I need some time to think. Would you…," he cleared his throat and once again pulled down the front of his waistcoat, "would you please excuse me?"

"Of course," I replied. "Just know that I'm here if you need me."

XXX

"Angel?" Christine whimpered between broken sobs.

My voice, which had been singing an old, forgotten lullaby, faltered ever-so-slightly as the depths of her sorrow, tinged with just the tiniest bit of hope, filtered through the mirror. I do not know what had possessed me to start singing in the first place, other than I had desperately wanted to do anything to bring an end to those heartbreaking cries.

Rehearsals had not gone well today.

Christine had had an air of distraction about her the entire time. She had missed her cue more than once, earning her a few disapproving scowls from Gabriel, the chorus master. But while she had been able to recover from his disappointment, it was the disparaging remarks from La Carlotta that pushed her over the edge and had me itching to fasten my fingers around the prima donna's pompous, overbearing neck.

My delicate flower promptly dissolved into tears and ran from the stage. High above in the rafters, I followed her as she pushed her way past the scene shifters and barreled down the corridor to her dressing room.

Something wasn't right. Christine had received criticism before. At times it was well-earned. Her voice held so much potential—so much promise! But something was holding her back, and it had never been more evident than it was this afternoon. For weeks I had watched her from afar, fixated on the idea of what I could do with that voice if only I had been given the chance. And for weeks I had watched her slowly wilt as the pressures of the stage and the weight of Carlotta's jealous criticism bore down upon her.

Today had been her worst day, by far. Dark circles rimmed her red, swollen eyes and her complexion, which was normally a bit on the pale side, was sallow and wan. Was she hurt? Sick? I put my hand on the cold glass, aching with the desire to comfort her and wipe her tears away. If only I could….

"Is that you, Angel?" Christine went on, unaware that her innermost thoughts were being preyed upon by a disfigured monster. "Has papa finally fulfilled his promise to send me the Angel of Music?"

My heart began to beat out a rhythm of excitement in my chest the likes of which I had never felt before. An Angel of Music? How serendipitous! Never before had a role fit so perfectly. Angels were nameless. Faceless. One didn't need to see them to believe they existed.

"Oh, papa," she whispered to herself, smiling sweetly through her tears. "You've been gone a year today, but you didn't forget about me after all! And today of all days you chose to send him to me."

So that was why she was struggling today, and why I had slowly witnessed her folding in on herself over the course of the last couple weeks. She was grieving the death of her father. A father who had promised to send her an Angel of Music, and had, up until this point, left his child waiting in ignorant, agonizing silence. The blood was pumping so fast and hard through my veins that it made my ears ring. I was born to play this role. Fate had at last stepped in and taken pity on my plight. I was not meant to be alone forever, as I once feared. God had set Christine upon this path for a reason. I could be the Angel she had been promised.

All I had to do was find the nerve to break the silence.

XXX

The clock on the dash read 7:58. I was going to be late for work.

I'd been sitting in my Jeep for a little over five minutes now, trying to work up the nerve to go inside. The heat that had built up from the drive over was rapidly dissipating now that the car was off, and each indecisive sigh that left my lips generated a small white cloud that hung heavily in the dense, cold air. The sun had just begun to rise over the horizon and beams of morning sunlight streamed through a break in the dark clouds, filtering past my fogged windows with the promise that today was going to be a rather decent day. With one last dramatic sigh of resignation, I grabbed my purse, removed my keys from the ignition, and forced myself to open the door.

How was I going to face Jake today and act like nothing had happened between us? How was I going to keep from trying to catch his eyes every second he was near, searching for any indication of what he was thinking? And how was I going to keep Alejandra from noticing that I was suddenly acting different around him.

Oh, damn it all to hell! This was exactly the reason why I had wanted to avoid getting involved with someone at work in the first place. I was going to strangle Maddie for putting me in this situation.

The lingering smells of disinfectant, old paper magazines, and wooden children's toys overwhelmed me when I stepped into the waiting area, which was mercifully empty. I let out a breath of relief and hiked the strap of my purse higher up on my shoulder.

"Morning, Chris," Alejandra greeted as she rounded the corner with a stack of files in her hand.

"Morning."

"It's just you and me for a while. Dr. Stevenson called to say he was running behind."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Did he say why?"

Was he having seconds thoughts, too?

"Something about cold winter days and dead batteries," she replied with a shrug. "He said he shouldn't be more than an hour. I've already called his first appointment and rescheduled."

"Okay."

I sat down in the chair next to her and logged onto my computer while Alejandra checked for any voice messages that had been left by clients over the weekend.

"Did you have a good weekend?" she asked after a while.

"Yeah, for the most part," I said. Some parts of it were better than others. "Did you?"

She nodded. "I love this time of the year. Me and my mama spent all weekend canning and making jam."

I smiled, imagining the wonderful smells that must have been swirling around their kitchen.

"Which reminds me. I brought this for you." Alejandra rummaged in her purse for a second and produced a small jar of jam. "It's raspberry."

"Aww, thank you!" I said, taking it from her. "You're so sweet!"

"You're welcome." The phone rang and she picked it up. "Dr. Stevenson's office."

For a Monday, the day was off to a surprisingly slow start. I wasn't sure if it was because of the recent bout of blustery weather or what, but there weren't as many calls coming in this morning. While Alejandra spoke to the client on the phone I reached over and grabbed the stack of files she had been carrying when I first walked in. I motioned to her, silently asking if she wanted me to put them away. She mouthed 'thank you' and sandwiched the phone between her ear and her shoulder so she could hand me a few more that I hadn't seen.

Normally we had to save any filing of patient charts until the very end of the day, simply because the two of us were too busy to step away from the phones and the front desk before then. Today was different, and I was grateful to have a moment to hide in between the shelves and catch my breath.

"Morning, Dr. Stevenson," I heard Alejandra cheerfully exclaim, which was immediately followed by a sharp gasp. "Oh my god what happened to your eye?"

Every muscle in my body tensed as I edged back out into the admin area and peered around the shelf to sneak a glimpse. Over the course of the last day the purplish bruise across his nose and around his left eye had deepened until it was almost black. What was worse, the small capillaries in the white part of his eye had burst, leaving a pool of bright red that puddled around his pupil.

At that precise moment, Jake's eyes flicked briefly to me and his lips pulled into a gentle grin. "I was out with friends on Saturday night, playing pool. Unfortunately, I was not quick enough to dodge out of the way of a flying eight-ball."

I used the remaining files to cover the lower part of my face, hoping that neither one of them would notice how red my cheeks were.

"Oh my god," Alejandra cried again. "Does it hurt?"

Jake shook his head, the smile never leaving his face. "No. It looks worse than it really is." Catching my eye for the second time, he angled his head and said, "Good morning, Christine."

Sucking in a quick breath of courage I lowered the files and stepped out of my hiding spot. "Morning, Dr. Stevenson. Everything go all right with your car?"

"Yes. One of my neighbors was kind enough to jumpstart my car this morning, but I'm afraid I'll probably need a new battery. I'll have to swing by and get one on the way home. If I need to, would one of you ladies be willing to give me a jump before we leave?"

The blood rushed to my cheeks as my mind quickly turned his innocent question into something much dirtier and all but shouted, yes, I'll jump you anytime! Shoving those rebellious thoughts down before they had a chance to leave my mouth, I cleared my throat and replied, "Sure. I keep jumper cables in the back of my jeep. I can help you."

Jake finally noticed how bad I was blushing and I watched as he realized the dual meaning behind his words. He downplayed it by laughing softly, but the look he shot me seconds later turned my insides into hot mush.

"Thanks. Well," he announced. "I better get to it. What time is my next appointment?"

"9:30." Alejandra said, seemingly oblivious to the heated glances we were exchanging. "But before you go, I wanted to give you this." She handed him a similar jar of jam. "It's raspberry."

"How very thoughtful. Thank you, Alejandra." He collected the jam, gave both of us a mock salute, and sauntered down the hall to his office.

I waited until he was out of sight and then let my shoulders drop with a strangled sigh. Alejandra swiveled around at the sound, pasting me with a quizzical look.

"Holy crap, girl. Are you okay? You're all red!"

"Yeah," I coughed, fanning my face with the files. "I just swallowed my spit wrong. I'll be okay."

XXX

Thankfully, the day started to pick up and soon there wasn't time to think about Jake or fiery glances or potentials problems associated with a clandestine workplace romance. My focus was blissfully diverted to the mundane tasks of booking appointments and assisting patients inside the office.

By lunch time my adrenaline rush had completely worn on off and I had almost forgotten about my embarrassing blunder this morning.

Jesus, I thought as I swirled my chicken noodle soup around the bowl with my spoon. If I was going to act this way every time he was around, I might as well just hand Alejandra a giant sign that said I was dating the boss. I needed to get a grip. Concentrate on something else for a while.

Of course, my thoughts immediately turned to Erik.

I was still angry with myself for exposing him to that book—even if it was an accident. Just as I feared, reading it had hurt him and in my mind, I was responsible for that.

I hated the thought that something I did had caused him pain.

The spoon stopped mid-swirl as I realized how protective I'd become.

Protective. Of the Opera Ghost. The bad guy.

I winced. Was that really fair?

Even though Erik had willingly admitted he'd killed people before, most if not all were in self-defense. It must have been awful for him; having to be constantly on edge, worried that at any moment someone could panic and freak out because of his mask, causing others to lash out and attack him. No wonder he was guarded and overly suspicious.

So then, why did I feel so conflicted?

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"Huh?"

I looked up to see Jake leaning against the doorframe to the lunchroom, his hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his beige slacks. His blue eyes were warm and brightened when we made eye contact.

"You've been staring at your soup for a while now. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I…." I trailed off. What was I going to tell him? That I was trying to figure out my complicated feelings for a guy who'd died almost a century and a half ago? That would go over great. He'd have me committed for sure. And he could do it, too, considering he was a psychologist and dealt with people with mental health issues for a living.

"You've had a rough time lately, Christine. This is for your own good. I'm only looking out for you."

But if I stayed silent and said nothing, he would assume I was thinking about him and our date, and as strange as it sounded, I didn't want him thinking that I was having regrets.

God damn it. Could this get any messier?

Think, Christine, think!

Maybe I could give him a watered-down version of the truth.

"You're going to think I'm silly, but uhh…." I bit my lip. "I was thinking about a character in a book I just finished reading.

Jake straightened. "Really? What book?"

I could feel my cheeks heating up. "The 'Phantom of the Opera.'"

Jake nodded approvingly. "Let me guess. Erik, right?"

"You know about Erik?" I breathed.

"Oh yes," he revealed. "I had to do a paper back in college on emotional trauma. The assignment required us to pick a fictional character from classic literature and describe what trauma they suffered and how it affected their character development and the overall arc of the story. So naturally, I picked Erik. I was always fascinated by his character, and his backstory provided several good examples to choose from."

"Really." Suddenly I had an idea. Maybe Jake, with all his psychological expertise, could help explain Erik's motives and help me understand more about his traumatic experiences. And in doing so, maybe the good doctor could unknowingly help me figure out the strange feelings my ghost was stirring inside me. "I'd be really interested to hear your take on things."

"And I'd love to tell you about it. But," Jake glanced down at his watch, "my one o'clock appointment will be here in about five minutes."

Damn.

He must have read the disappointment on my face because he added, "But maybe we could talk about it later? Like, say…over dinner?"

I inhaled. Was it wrong to say yes? I'd be helping Erik, after all. And going out to eat after work wasn't like committing to a long-term relationship. It was just dinner.

"Okay," I relented. "It's a date."