No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale by Christine Pope Read Free Book Online

complicated that it looked as if he had borrowed it from his ex-wife’s television station—but I didn’t think it was a parent who had caught my attention. No, now I was sure of it—the brown-haired man who stood almost at dead center in the back row of videographers was the same man I had almost knocked over several weeks earlier, when I had run from Dr. Green’s classroom in disgrace.  
    Who the hell was he? He didn’t really look old enough to be the parent of a senior-class college student. Also, as I stared at him, I noticed something odd. He might be standing with the rest of the parents in the back, but unlike most of them he wasn’t paying any attention to his camcorder. From time to time he glanced at his watch, then at his program, and then, faintly, I could see his chest heave, as if he were sighing with boredom or annoyance. It seemed as if he were waiting for something.
    He’s waiting for you , came a treacherous little thought in my head, a thought I clamped down on immediately. Rampant paranoia was the last thing I needed right now. He could be anyone—someone’s older brother, an uncle, whatever—and very possibly he didn’t see the value in recording the whole program if he were really only there to see one performer.
    “Spying?”  
    I jumped a little. It was Carrie Gustafson, the only person in the senior master class whom I genuinely disliked. She had a decent voice, but from the way she paraded around the class, you’d think she had already inked an exclusive contract with the Met.
    I swallowed my anger. “Just wanted to take a look.”
    “I can’t imagine why,” she drawled. “It’s not as if anyone’s out there to see you.”
    Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself of the legal consequences of assault and battery. Still, as much as I would have liked to snap back with something witty and yet pejorative, the only rejoinder I could come up with was, “Whatever…” before I dropped the curtain and slunk away. Carrie was one of the few people who could make me feel as if my IQ had suddenly dropped by fifty points. My only satisfaction lay in the fact that she had obviously been interested in Randall and was now doubly spiteful because he had made it plain that not only was he not interested in her, he was in fact already seeing the hated Christine Daly.
    “Ten points to me,” I whispered as I waited in the darkness backstage. Then my name was called, and I walked out into the blinding spotlights.
    I could still see myself—see Marguerite—robed in white and gold, shimmering with jewels and precious pearls. I took that image with me as the music welled up from inside, wrapping everyone in the hall, including myself, in its glorious spell. And I rode the waves of golden sound until the hall burst into applause like booming thunder and I stood alone in the spotlight, tears rolling down my cheeks as the audience erupted into a spontaneous standing ovation.  
     
    Erik took the disk from Jerome with a hand that shook only a little. Now past twelve, it was still the early watches of the night for him. Besides, he knew he couldn’t have slept knowing that he was so close to hearing her.  
    “Thank you, Jerome,” he said.  
    The man was obviously bursting with news, but Erik did not want to hear his assistant’s version of the night’s events. He wanted to see and hear for himself.  
    Even though Erik had meant his last words as a sort of dismissal, Jerome still lingered.
    “That will be all, Jerome,” he added, putting extra emphasis on “all” just in case the man really was too dense to understand that he wanted to experience her alone.
    Jerome blinked. “Of course, sir.”  
    Finally. Erik stood and went to the armoire that housed his audiovisual equipment, then slipped the DVD in the player. The LED screen powered up and he stepped back, watching.
    The image came on abruptly, as the audience was still applauding the previous performer. Christine walked to the