More Tricks, Monsieur?

Christine trembled in revulsion. The mere thought of the task the managers had so matter-of-factly assigned her sickened her but still she felt compelled to see it through.
Now she had witnessed the result of her actions two years ago she felt obliged to put herself through as much pain as possible. She felt a basic urge to suffer in the way that she'd forced Erik to suffer. Only then would she feel any kind of absolution.

Both Firmin and Andre accompanied her to the temporary resting place of the unfortunate victim. She mused that they thought they'd stand more chance of retaining her should she decide to flee if there were two of them. At any other time the notion would have bought a smile to her lips, but presently all she wanted to do was give in to the waves of nausea which threatened at regular intervals.

All too quickly the trio reached a darkened room, well out of the way of the mainstream theatre. Firmin unlocked the door and gave Christine a gentle but insistent push into the room.
Once inside she discerned that the small space had been intended for storage, but had rarely, if ever been used, and it contained nothing but a long, sturdy table.

She would have given anything to look away at that moment, but her eyes were unwillingly drawn to the bulky figure lying on the table, covered in a dirty sheet, which had once been white.
The managers strode over to this scene of death seemingly unaffected. Unceremoniously they took the sheet between then and threw it to reveal the man below.

Christine stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving, knowing that if she didn't see this through quickly then she wouldn't do it at all.
"Oh. My. God" The words spilled from trembling lips as she moved closer to the table.
She felt someone reach out and grasp her arm, offering ill-timed solace and comfort, but she remained transfixed, unable to draw her eyes away from the distorted face that lay before her. For all the damage the rocks had caused one thing remained undoubtedly certain in Christine's mind.
Andre cleared his throat, disturbed by the young woman's intense gaze.
"Well, mademoiselle"? a voice prompted her.
Finally she tore her eyes away and turned to him, barely able to speak.
He looked at her questioningly, longing for the confirmation that would end the mystery of the Opera Ghost.
"It's him," she whispered.
"I beg your pardon, what did you say"? he asked again, her words had been barely audible.
She steeled herself against all emotion and looked him directly in the eyes, before repeating her statement.
"It's him", she confirmed.
"Now, if you don't' mind, I'd like some air, this hasn't been easy" she excused herself and ran down endless corridors, gaining the main entrance to the bemusement of unsuspecting people in the foyer of the theatre.

Outside, Christine clung to the wall, gasping in lungfuls of fresh air, hoping it would rid her of the feelings that consumed her. Once again she had so many questions.
How had it happened? Who had found him? What had he been doing down there?

But, one question outshone all others, battling for dominance in her troubled mind, and she knew that until it was answered she would remain in turmoil.