"Strange, how?"
"Has anyone reported seeing anything...odd or unusual?"
"Not that I can think of. But a theater is a pretty odd place anyway."
"How long have you worked here?"
He looked again at the stage. I could see that a few people were waiting for him. "Five years. Worked my way up as a lighting guy out of college."
"Good for you. Who owns the theater?"
He pointed to a man sitting on a foldout chair on stage. The only man, apparently, not doing anything. "Robert Mason."
"The actor?"
"The one-time actor. His soap opera days are over. This is where he spends most of his time."
"May I have your name?" I asked.
"Tad Biggs."
I nodded and somehow kept a straight face. I said, "May I ask what's in your back room?"
"Back room?"
"Yes, the storage room at the far end of the hallway."
He blinked. Twice. No, three times. "How do you know about the storage room?"
"I'm a heck of an investigator."
"That room is strictly off limits."
"Why?"
This time he didn't blink. This time, he just stared at me. "Because Robert Mason says it is. Look, I gotta go. We have a show to put on. I hope you guys catch the sick son of a bitch who did this to Brian."
I nodded and watched him hurry off. Then I flicked my eyes over to where Robert Mason was sitting in the foldout chair on stage - and gasped when I saw him staring back at me.
He was still as handsome as ever. Older, granted, but one hell of a handsome man. He stared at me some more, then looked away.
I shivered, and exited stage left.
Chapter Thirteen
I was watching them from the parking lot.
Not exactly the best seat in town, granted, but it would have to do. Lately, I seemed to be almost completely intolerant to the sun. Brief sojourns were excruciating, even when I was fully clothed and lathered.
And so, while my son played soccer, I sat alone in my van, huddled in the center of my seat, thankful for the surrounding tinted glass. Of course, from where I sat, I couldn't see the entire playing field, but beggars can't be choosers.
It was a crisp late winter day, warm for this time of year, perfect for anyone who wasn't me. Before me were some bleachers filled with moms and dads and relatives and friends. The mothers all seem to know each other and they laughed and pointed and cupped their hands and shouted encouragement. They shared stories and drinks and sandwiches and chips.
I sat alone and watched them and tried not to feel sorry for myself. Easier said than done.
From where I sat, I couldn't tell who was winning, so I just watched Anthony as he ran up and down the field, disappearing and reappearing from around poles and bleachers and hedges.
From what I could tell, he had real talent, but what did I know? These days, he almost always scored a goal - sometimes even two or three. He seemed to have the strongest leg - kicking leg, that is - and a real nose for the action; at least, he was always right in the thick of things. Mostly I cringed and winced when I watched him, praying he would be careful. My overprotectiveness wasn't a surprise, especially when you consider what I went through seven months ago.