Chapter 2
The polished wooden steps felt steep beneath Vance’s boots as he climbed toward the stage. Behind him, the faint sound of Elena shifting her weight on the carpet could still be heard, accompanied by the muffled click of the red rotary dial spinning back into place. The audience at the banquet tables watched his progress with unabashed curiosity, their wine glasses suspended midway to their lips. Vance kept his chin up, his posture rigid, presenting the immaculate facade of a man who commanded battalions, even as his mind raced with the implications of what had just transpired.
He reached the top of the platform and approached the heavy oak podium. Resting on its surface was a small leather-bound itinerary and a glass of ice water, but Vance ignored them. His eyes were drawn immediately to the massive projection screen suspended behind the podium. Currently, it displayed the glowing digital emblem of the Veterans Outreach Foundation—a stylized bald eagle clutching a bronze shield. It was the very organization that was supposed to be honoring him tonight for his decades of service in logistics and humanitarian coordination overseas.
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Instead of a celebration, the evening had devolved into a surreal interrogation of the mind. Vance gripped the edges of the wooden podium with both hands, his fingers pressing into the grain until his knuckles ached. He glanced toward the back of the ballroom, where the double doors stood shut, guarded by event staff who looked just as bewildered as the guests. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with unspoken questions and quiet judgment. Vance knew he had to regain control of the narrative before the whispers turned into a scandal that would permanently stain his record.
He leaned slightly over the microphone attached to the podium, the small red power light glowing steadily in his peripheral vision. He needed to address the crowd, to dismiss Elena’s silent demonstration as a momentary aberration, a tragic misunderstanding brought on by grief or stress. Yet, as he looked back down at the floor, he saw that Elena was still kneeling, still holding that absurd red telephone, her lips moving in a silent, rhythmic cadence. She was talking to someone who wasn't there, and the terrifying part was that Vance knew, with sickening certainty, exactly which ghost she was trying to reach.
