Chapter Text
It’s the feeling of being trapped that always makes Erik move.
The moment creeps in—tight in his chest, clawing at his ribs—he has to get up, has to run, because it feels too much like that room all those years ago.
Sometimes the panic grows so loud in his head that he runs until his lungs burn and his legs threaten to give out beneath him.
Trauma, Nadir calls it. PTSD.
Erik calls it fucking bullshit.
He’s been away from the cult for twelve years, and he still sometimes wakes with that same suffocating certainty that he’s locked in again—even though the only lock on his door is one he holds the key to.
It’s why he left Nadir five years ago… why he ran for so long.
He was still afraid he would be found and forced back there. So, he moved, for years he had no place to call his own, no place he stayed in very long, just a small bag of belongings and a card linked to an account Nadir set up for him.
But then he gets hurt.
He’s already in the middle of a panic attack when it happens—vision tunneling, breath coming too fast—when his foot slips on wet pavement and he slams hard into the ground, his head cracking against the concrete.
Everything goes black.
The next thing he remembers is waking in a hospital bed, panic exploding through him before he’s even fully conscious. He grabs at the IV, yanking them out without thinking and blood beads down his arm as he tries to bolt from the bed.
It takes two orderlies to tackle him to the ground and he’s panicking again as a nurse jabs something into his arm right before the world disappears again.
When Erik wakes the second time, there’s a woman sitting in the chair next to him. A ‘trauma therapist’ she calls herself and asks if he wants to talk. When he doesn’t respond, she writes something down on her notepad and leans forward. He flinches on instinct and her eyebrow raises, before she reassures him she was just putting her notebook down.
She assumes he’s homeless… living on the streets.
The first part is true—the only place he could have called home, he left—but he’s never slept outside. There’s always been some cheap hotel room where he could barricade the door just for a few hours of fitful sleep.
But he isn’t about to explain that to her.
“When can I leave?” he growls.
The therapist sighs softly. “Any time you like, your head CT came back clear.” Erik pushes himself up, and she raises both hands quickly. “But I recommend you stay. You have a mild concussion. Someone should monitor you in case symptoms worsen.”
And have them stick another needle in him? He thinks. No thank you.
He tells her he will have someone do that outside of the hospital, and of course, she doesn’t believe him. The next thing he knows, he’s holding the hospital phone in his hand, dialing the only number he’s memorized.
The only person he’s ever fully trusted.
Annette.
He almost hangs up twice. But then she answers and before he can tell her fully what happened, he can hear her moving.
The hours stretch and he feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. The hospital is too bright, too loud, there are too many footsteps in the hall. Every sound grates against his skull, every passing shadow pulls his attention toward the door. He doesn’t sleep because every time he closes his eyes, his chest tightens like he won’t be able to breathe again.
He wants to walk out, even convinces himself it’ll be easier now that it’s the middle of the night. But then he hears Annette’s voice in his head—
“I’ll be there as soon as possible. Please don’t leave.”
—and he stays.
Annette drives through the night. By the time she arrives at Temple University Hospital in Philadelphia the next morning, Erik is sitting upright in the bed, shoulders tight, gaze locked on the door like he’s expecting it to betray him.
For a quick moment, he’s thrusted back to when she saved him all those years before—the same frantic look in her eyes, the same desperation—and something inside him twists.
He hadn’t even known his own name then.
Spawn of Satan he had been called his entire life. Born in the fires of hell.
And then Annette knelt before him and took his face in her hands. Her hands were trembling, tears were caught between her lashes as she looked at him like he was something not damned.
“Your name is Erik,” she had told him, voice breaking but full of conviction. “Erik Garnier.”
He feels that same tightness in his chest now, sitting in the hospital bed, watching her step through the door—older, but still her. Still the woman who gave him something as simple as a name.
She looks exhausted—hair pulled back too quickly, eyes rimmed with red—but the moment she sees him, something in her face loosens.
“Erik.”
She crosses the room in seconds, stopping just short of touching him, like she’s giving him the choice. He doesn’t remember deciding, he just leans forward, and she pulls him into a hug. It’s brief… but enough.
Annette begs him to come back to New York with her, just until he’s well. After that, he can leave whenever he wants. She has the space, she insists. Her house is really two homes and the upstairs apartment hasn’t been used in years.
His first instinct is to say no, always no.
But then he looks at her and he sees the same fierce determination in her eyes she had all those years ago and somehow, he hears himself agreeing.
Just until he’s well… a week, at most.
A week turns into two.
When he’s well, it becomes just until he finds a job.
Then Nadir shows up—unannounced, irritatingly persistent—and offers him freelance architecture work. Says he always believed Erik had talent and trusts his work.
Erik tells him to fuck off.
Nadir laughs and leaves the paperwork anyway.
He ends up taking the job because he finds that he actually enjoys it. He also picks up editing work for authors in his downtime, the extra cash helping… well, nothing really since he barely spends on anything.
But they are jobs that are solitary, jobs that he can do at his own pace, and jobs he can do anywhere.
And yet… he stays with Annette.
Because for the first time in his twenty-seven years on this earth, he has something that’s his.
Not a cage.
Not a room.
A home.
The in suite is small, but it’s quiet. The floors don’t creak unless he steps too hard and the door locks—with a lock he controls, a key that belongs only to him—solid and certain beneath his hand.
And there is a cat.
Ayesha, he named her.
He found her out on one of his walks. She was thin, her hair was clumped together with dirt and mud. But still, she looked at him like she was judging him and cut him to shreds if he dared to get too close. He still doesn’t know why he took her, she scratched the hell out of him when he picked her up and fought him like hell when he tried to clean her.
Erik told himself he would feed her and let her go, but then he noticed the white patch of fur over her right eye and something in him felt a strong connection. But still, he wouldn’t be her captor. He gave her the decision, took her down to the front door at three in the morning and put her down. She stared at him for a moment, eyes blinking only once, before her tail flicked and she walked back up the steps to his apartment.
She follows him from room to room without sound, a shadow with soft paws, settling just close enough to be there but never demanding. And when he wakes from a nightmare—because his ghosts still haunt him—she appears beside him, warm and steady, pressing her small weight against his leg like an anchor.
So, he lets her stay… and lets himself stay.
Still, old habits don’t disappear so easily. Erik maps out exit routes from every room and keeps weapons hidden throughout the apartment… just in case.
And yet, the feeling still creeps in.
Like the walls are closing in, like the air is thinning, like the space around him is shrinking inch by inch until there’s nowhere left to go.
Which means he needs to move.
Needs air.
It’s still early—the night only started a couple hours ago—but he’ll risk it. It’s better than sitting here waiting for the walls to close in.
Outside, at least, he can run.
Luckily, it’s still cool enough that wearing his hood up doesn’t draw much attention. It makes hiding the mask easier.
People always do a double take when they see it. But just like he told Annette when it was delivered—
It’s better than the alternative.
A quick glance out the window tells him Annette’s daughter isn’t throwing one of her parties tonight, which he is incredibly grateful for.
He slips out of his apartment and down the stairs, letting out a quiet breath of relief when he passes Annette’s door without it opening.
The fresh air hits him the moment he steps outside and he takes a deep breath, lowering his head.
His body begins to slowly relax as he walks, tucking his hands inside of his hoodie. Instinctively, he checks for his keys. They are there… of course they are. Going anywhere without his keys is unheard of. He just can’t not have the key to the lock…
He needs to control it.
After only just ten minutes, it starts to rain. At first, it’s just a drizzle—annoying, but manageable. Then it picks up, steady and cold, soaking through his hoodie in minutes.
He exhales sharply, irritation flickering in his chest. He could turn back, he probably should turn back, but the thought of going back inside—of stepping into that quiet apartment where the walls already feel a little too close tonight—makes something in his chest tighten. So, he keeps walking, his shoulders curling more inward the harder the rain falls.
It’s the neon glow that finally catches his attention. Across the street, reflected in the wet pavement, a flickering sign reads ‘OPEN 24/7’. A diner. He slows, watching it for a moment as rain drips from the edge of his hood. It isn’t ideal, too open, too unpredictable. But it’s dry, and more importantly, it isn’t home.
After a second’s hesitation, he crosses the street.
The bell above the door gives a dull jingle as he steps inside, and the first thing that hits him is the brightness.
Too bright.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead, harsh and unforgiving, washing everything in a sterile glow. The smell follows next—grease, coffee, something fried hours ago and still lingering in the air.
His gaze sweeps the room immediately—instinct, habit—cataloging everything without thinking. There aren’t many people—one at the counter, two in a booth near the window, another further back. None of them are looking at him, none of them are paying attention.
Good.
Behind the counter, there’s a redheaded waitress leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone.
She doesn’t even glance up as she says, “Sit wherever you want.”
Her voice is flat, disinterested.
That works for him.
Erik moves without hesitation, choosing a booth in the far corner, back to the wall, with a clear view of the door. He slides in, shoulders still tight, and pats himself down as best as possible with napkins while he continues to look around.
Still, no one has noticed him, they are too busy looking down at their phones. His jaw tightens as he realizes he left his phone at his apartment. This doesn’t surprise him—having a phone is still new to him. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s going to try and contact him since the only people that do—Nadir, Darius, and Annette—keep normal hours.
They live in the sun, unlike Erik, who wakes in the late afternoon and goes to sleep just as the sun begins to rise.
That was why he initially argued with Annette that he didn’t need a phone.
She didn’t listen.
“If you don’t want me coming up there when the girls are home,” she pleaded, “then at least let me call or text you.”
He tells himself the only reason he gave in was because he didn’t want to hear her argue, but really… it’s because she’s the only person who’s ever cared whether he lives or dies.
It’s still a strange concept, even after all this time, that someone cares if he’s alive.
She has to be crazy.
Then again, she adopted her best friend’s daughter after he died of cancer—and broke Erik out of his own personal hell simply because, in her words—
It was the right thing to do.
Maybe not crazy… maybe just misguided. Because from what Erik learned very early in life… no one does anything for free. There’s always an agenda. People always want something.
A month in, Erik is still waiting to find out what Annette’s is.
Not if she has one… but when she’ll ask for it.
Crumpling the wet napkin in his hand, Erik looks around once again… everyone is still on their phones. He knows exactly where his is, too. On the small table by the couch, right where Annette told him not to forget it where it always is because he only touches it once a day.
Now, sitting here without it, he finds himself wondering—briefly, irrationally—if it makes him stand out.
His mind drifts—uninvited—back to the cult. To the rules… the isolation. The way they called the internet evil, said it was run by the devil.
He knows better now.
It was never about evil. It was about control. Keep people isolated long enough, cut them off from the outside world, and they stop questioning things, they stop thinking for themselves.
But since he’s been out, he’s found it… useful.
If he wants to learn something, it’s there. An article, a video—whatever he needs, it’s there for him to learn, and he learns fast, because knowledge to him is an addiction.
“Here you go, Hank!”
The voice cuts clean through the dull swing of the kitchen doors, bright and warm in a way that doesn’t belong in a place like this. It’s alive—effortlessly so—and it draws Erik’s attention before he can stop himself.
His head lifts.
He’s seen beautiful women before. His entire life has been filled with beautiful, manipulative women. But this woman…
She stands near the counter, holding out a grease-stained paper bag, her smile easy and genuine in a way that feels almost out of place in the dim, tired space. Her chestnut curls are pulled back into a loose ponytail, strands already slipping free around her face. There’s something open about her, something unguarded, something… intriguing.
“Drive safe out there,” she says, her voice softer now as the man takes the bag and mutters something in return, already turning away.
And then she turns to him.
The smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it softens, like it’s meant for him now, and for a brief, disorienting second, Erik forgets what he was so desperate to run from.
He looks away almost immediately, pulling his hood lower as she approaches, angling his head just enough to keep his mask out of the light.
“Hi there, I’m Christine,” she says, and before he can react, she sets something on the table in front of him. “You look like you could use this.”
A towel… rough, clean, and still faintly warm.
Her voice sends a strange shiver down his spine, and his fingers twitch before he finally reaches for it.
Christine.
This angel’s name is Christine.
“T-thank you,” he manages, the words catching slightly on the way out. It surprises him—both the stutter and the fact that he spoke at all.
“Can I start you out with anything?”
He hadn’t planned to order anything… hadn’t planned to stay long enough to need to.
“Uh—c-coffee,” he says anyway, the answer slipping out before he can stop it.
“Anything else?”
He can feel her eyes upon him, but he keeps his gaze locked on the towel. He wants to see her, wants to gaze into her beautiful face—but he doesn’t. He just shakes his head and his fingers twist in the towel.
“One coffee, coming right up.”
He can hear the smile in her voice, and when she turns, her ponytail swishes past him in a quick rush of air that makes Erik close his eyes as he catches the faint scent of roses.
Erik exhales slowly and drags the towel over his hair, then down the back of his neck, grounding himself in the rough texture. The damp fabric of his hoodie clings uncomfortably to his skin, but he ignores it, focusing instead on the simple, repetitive motion.
Dry.
Breathe.
Stay still.
She approaches with a coffee pot and he’s wiping his shaking hands dry as she flips over the mug on the table and pours the coffee.
“If you need anything else, just let me know.”
“Ok—yes.” His cheeks burn and she turns away from him again.
From the corner of his eye, he watches her.
Christine moves easily behind the counter, slipping between spaces like she belongs there, like nothing in the world is pressing in on her. She laughs at something the other waitress says—soft and wonderful—and it does something strange to his chest.
He doesn’t understand it.
He doesn’t like that he doesn’t understand it.
The bell above the door jingles loudly, cutting through the low hum of the diner.
“Chris!”
The voice is bright and loud and entirely unbothered by the quiet atmosphere. Erik’s attention shifts instinctively, eyes flickering toward the entrance.
A blonde strides in, shaking rain from her jacket, already smiling like she owns the place and Christine lights up immediately.
“Meg!” She comes around the counter without hesitation, pulling the blonde into a quick, easy hug like it’s second nature.
Erik watches. Something about the blonde feels familiar. He can’t place it—not right away—but it nags at him, pulling at something just out of reach.
“You would not believe the night I’ve had,” the blonde—Meg—says, dropping into a seat at the counter. “Did you see the post I sent you on Instagram?”
Christine shakes her head. “I haven’t been able to check my phone.” She brings out a rag and wipes the counter down in front of where Meg’s sitting. “Did you want something to eat?”
“Might as well,” Meg responds, grabbing for a menu to the left of her. “Mama says she’s having dinner with Nadir tonight so we are on our own.”
The name hits him like a physical blow.
Nadir.
Everything clicks at once and why she looks so familiar.
This is Meg… Annette’s daughter, and Christine—Christine is the girl Annette adopted.
The girl who lives just below him with Annette and her daughter Meg.
Erik is on his feet before he’s fully aware of the decision. The movement is sharp, sudden, driven by something too close to panic to name. He fumbles into his pocket, pulls out cash, and drops it onto the table—far more than necessary, more than the coffee he never even touched.
He just needs to leave.
Now.
He’s already halfway to the door when he hears her voice again and it follows him into the rain.
“Have a good night!”
Is it possible to love someone you’ve never met?
Three months ago, Christine Daae would have laughed at the question. Love required presence, didn’t it? A person that you’ve been around, spent time with, touched… words alone could be shaped and polished, they could be deceiving. There’s no possible way you could truly know someone through a screen.
And then she met him.
Erik.
At first, there was nothing remarkable about it. Her Instagram account was public—new followers came and went all the time, especially when one of her photos hit a particular popular tag. She barely noticed them unless they crossed a line and earned a block. So, when an account called thephantom followed her, she thought nothing of it.
His interactions were minimal. A like on a photograph of a misty lake. A simple beautiful beneath a rare selfie. Then a message.
She has posted a short video of herself singing in the subway, mostly for fun. She liked the acoustics down there—the echo, the way her voice seemed to bloom. His message wasn’t flirtatious or strange. It was technical. A suggestion about pitch placement, breath support… tone.
She didn’t reply. Instead, curiosity nudged her to his profile.
No posts, no profile picture, no followers and he only followed three accounts. A music account, an architecture design account, and her.
That should have been strange. Instead, she shrugged it off, sent a thumbs-up reaction, and forgot about it.
Until he messaged again.
It was after she posted another singing video, he gave another note of advice. She was bored that evening, restless, so she tried what he suggested—and felt the difference immediately.
Oh.
She thanked him, told him no one had ever explained it that way before. He replied that she was gifted, that her voice wanted to be understood, not controlled.
That stayed with her.
After that, things settled back into a rhythm of quiet likes and occasional comments… until she struggled with a difficult passage one night and, on impulse, asked for his help.
That was the moment everything shifted.
Advice became her sending him videos of her singing when she was inspired and he would critique, encourage, challenge. Those challenges became conversations. Conversations became something she started looking forward to. They exchanged numbers. Two months after that first message, a day without him felt strange.
He was a night person, just like Christine, lived alone and didn’t go out much. He told her he did freelance work—architecture, editing for authors—and that kept him mostly at home.
So you read a lot? – C
You have no idea. – E
He also composed music, and when he sent her a piece, she listened to it on repeat for nearly twenty minutes, the melody curling straight around her heart. But it was the first phone call that changed everything.
It happened on the anniversary of her father’s death.
Grief came crashing down without warning, sharp and merciless. Christine was alone that night—a rare thing—and she didn’t bother holding herself together. She sobbed until her chest hurt, screamed until her throat burned, pouring everything into the dark and hoping it would stay there.
During it, her phone buzzed.
Are you okay? I’ve got a bad feeling – E
Her reply was a single word.
No – C
He called immediately.
And the moment she heard his voice—low, gentle, impossibly steady—something in her broke open. He stayed with her through the worst of it, grounding her, listening, never pushing. She doesn’t remember falling asleep with him still on the phone, but when she woke the next morning, she held her phone to her chest like something precious.
“Earth to Christine!”
Meg’s voice snaps her back to the present, fingers waving impatiently in front of her face.
Christine startles, cheeks warming as she tucks a curl of chestnut hair behind her ear.
“Yes—sorry,” she says, smiling faintly, her thoughts still somewhere with Erik.
Meg continues on about her coworker and a disastrously burnt batch of croissants and Christine nods, despite still being distracted.
It’s strange, she thinks, how easily Erik slips into the spaces between everything else. He isn’t here, not in the way Meg is—elbows on the table, stealing pickles off Christine’s plate without asking, sunlight catching in her hair as she talks. He isn’t like Raoul either, loud and tangible and impossible to ignore when he walks into a room.
And yet… he feels just as real.
Maybe more, in some quiet, impossible way.
Because Erik exists in moments no one else sees.
In the stillness of her room at night, when she listens to the music he composes to fall asleep. in the thrill of her heart beating faster when she sees the notification from Instagram is from him. In the way her fingers hover over her screen during the day, waiting—hoping—for those three little dots to appear.
It’s ridiculous.
If Meg asked her—really asked her—Christine wouldn’t know how to explain it. How do you describe someone who has never stood in front of you, never touched you, never even let you see them… and yet somehow feels woven into the fabric of your days?
How do you explain the way your chest tightens when they go quiet? Or the way it lifts—bright and breathless—when they come back?
“Christine.”
She blinks.
Meg is staring at her now, one brow raised, a pickle halfway to her mouth.
“You’ve been smiling at nothing for, like, a full minute,” she says slowly. “Do I need to be concerned?”
“What are we concerned about now?”
Both girls turn at the same time, startled by the familiar presence looming beside their table. A man with blonde hair and blue eyes stands there with one brow raised, and a smug little smirk that says he’s been enjoying their obliviousness.
Raoul DeChagny.
The youngest of four children, born when his parents assumed they were done and their other children were already teenagers.
The three of them met when they were young, when Annette was hired as Raoul’s nanny. As part of her payment, Annette was allowed to move into one of the houses on the estate with her young daughter.
Christine basically lived with them, being dropped off almost every day when her father had work, which left Raoul, Meg and Christine to grow up together. He spent most of his time with them, took to calling Annette Auntie like Christine did, and the three of them became their own little family.
When Christine’s father died, it was Raoul’s parents that helped Annette adopt Christine, and when Raoul aged out of needing a nanny, they allowed Annette to stay on the estate with the two girls because Raoul demanded it.
Anything to make it easier on them, Christine often thinks.
Annette is the one that Raoul goes to when he needs advice… Annette is the one Raoul goes to when he’s scared or needs help… and Annette is the one that raised him to be the man that he is today.
He even has his own room in their house despite the fact that he technically lives in the main house with his parents.
He was family in every way that matters.
“You’re back!”
They’re both on their feet instantly, chairs scraping as they launch themselves at him. Raoul laughs, arms coming around them easily, solid and warm in a way that feels like home.
“Megra!” He presses a dramatic kiss to the top of her head before turning to Christine and doing the same. “Lotte. Oh, how I’ve missed you ladies.”
Christine smiled up at him as they sit back down, Raoul naturally claiming the seat between them like he’s never been gone at all. “So, how was your family vacation?”
“Yes,” Meg adds brightly, leaning forward. “Do tell us everything about the Hamptons.”
Raoul lets out a long, theatrical sigh and reaches over to steal a sip from Christine’s drink without asking. “Boring. Painfully boring. I don’t know why they insisted I go.” He shrugs. “I spent most of my time with my nephews.”
Meg snorts. “They’re five and seven.”
Christine tilts her head, smiling sweetly. “So—right around your maturity level.”
Raoul laughs and flicks a napkin at her, which she dodges easily, grinning.
As the two of them fall into easy banter, Christine lets herself drift just slightly, her fingers finding her phone that’s on the table, checking to see if Erik has responded to her request.
Would you like to watch a movie with me tomorrow night? – C
Her heart begins to thud when she sees he has.
And how do we do that, my dear? – E
She chews on her top lip. Suggesting a video call always feels like stepping too close to an edge—one that usually ends in polite deflection and quiet disappointment.
Easy. We talk on the phone and watch the same movie together. – C
Christine waits, a second passes, then another. The familiar ache begins to bloom in her chest.
Please say yes. – C
The typing bubbles appear… vanish… reappear. Her stomach twists, and then—
Yes. – E
She has to physically restrain herself from laughing outright, warmth rushing through her so suddenly it almost makes her dizzy. Phone calls with Erik are rare, precious things—he guards himself so carefully—but when he lets her in like this, it feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds.
“How was Mama when you picked her up? Is she nervous about the flight?” Meg’s voice breaks her out of her stupor and Christine looks up.
Raoul scoffs with a grin. “When have you ever known Auntie to be nervous about anything? If anything, the pilots should be nervous about her being on board.”
Meg laughs, Christine does too, the sound bright—but softer on Christine’s end, like something of it is still caught somewhere else.
She glances down at her phone again, quick and almost absentminded, just long enough to reread the message.
Yes – E
“Wow,” Meg says with a small smile. “He must have said something really good.”
Christine huffs a small laugh, not even bothering to deny it this time. “We’re watching a movie tomorrow.”
Raoul perks up immediately. “A movie?” He leans forward, interest piqued. “What, like—together together, or your weird long-distance telepathy thing?”
Christine rolls her eyes but still smiles. “It’s called a phone call, Raoul. People do it.”
“Suspicious,” he mutters, but he’s grinning.
Meg props her chin in her hand. “Wait, that’s actually kind of cute.”
Christine ducks her head slightly, smiling into her drink. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“Oh, it’s already a thing,” Raoul assures her. “I expect a full report.”
“Absolutely not.”
Raoul lifts his shoulder and offers, “But if it goes well you can invite him to the party this weekend.”
Meg’s brow furrows.
“Party? What party?”
Raoul smirks. “The pool party you two are throwing in honor of my return.”
“Mama said no parties, Raoul!” Meg gasps.
Raoul leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head with the smirk.
“Mama said no parties, Raoul,” he mimics in a sing-song voice, then groans. “Tragic. Truly.”
Christine lifts a brow. “She did specifically say it.”
“But I just got back,” he whines, utterly unashamed, before turning his full attention to Christine. “You want to celebrate tomorrow, right?”
Christine laughs softly, shaking her head. “If Auntie told you no, that means she already knows you’re planning one.”
Raoul scoots his chair closer to the table anyway, crowding them with practiced familiarity, and slings an arm around each of their shoulders. “I see that, once again, the responsibility of corrupting my would-be sisters, falls to me.”
Christine’s eyes widen in mock alarm while Meg beams, clearly thrilled by the prospect.
She hesitates, then takes a sip of her lemonade. “What about Mr. Y?”
Both Meg and Raoul blink.
“What about him?” Raoul asks, brows knitting together. “He’s hasn’t told on us, yet.”
Mr. Y, the mysterious tenant that lived in the in-law suite on the third floor of their—well Aunties—house. He’d moved in a few months back and might as well have been a ghost—quiet footsteps, lights on late, the occasional sound of music drifting down the stairwell. None of them had ever actually seen him, except for Auntie and the guy Darius that drops off his groceries.
“What if he does this time?” Christine asks gently.
Meg snorts. “If he didn’t tattle when Raoul almost set the porch swing on fire, I think we’re safe.”
“I was roasting marshmallows!” Raoul argues around a mouthful of Meg’s stolen cheese fries, earning himself a smack to the arm.
Christine watches them fondly, then blurts, “Maybe we should invite him.”
Meg stares at her while Raoul slowly turns his head. “Invite who?”
“Isn’t he like… Mama’s age?”
“I don’t know!” Christine cries out. “I’ve never seen him!”
“Maybe he doesn’t really exist,” Raoul adds thoughtfully, earning a raised brow from Christine. “Maybe Auntie made him up and that’s where she hides all the bodies of the people that have wronged her.”
Meg giggles and Christine rolls her eyes. “I’ve heard him playing the piano!”
Raoul wiggles his fingers at her. “Aha! A musical phantom haunting the upper floors.”
“I was just trying to be nice,” she chuckles, swatting his fingers away.
“And as admirable as that is, Lotte,” Raoul says with exaggerated seriousness. “I think it’s safe to say Mr. Y will survive the crushing insult of being left off the guest list.” Then he leans forward, smirk firmly in place. “Now tell me, have either of you made any interesting new friends while I was gone?”