One of the ghosts came to bug me while I was updating my diary. I don't know why I bothered. I'd write full steam for about a week and then totally lose interest. My closet was full of ninety journals that were only used through the first fifteen pages.

Marc had just left after begging me, once again, to have a carrot cake instead of chocolate. The maniac. We exchanged cross words and then he huffed out. Jessica was asleep. (It was two A.M.) Tina was out on the town, probably feeding. (I was careful not to ask.) Sinclair was somewhere in the house.

And the ghost was standing in front of my closet with her back to me, bent forward like a butler bowing from the waist, her head stuck through the door. I don't even know why I turned around. She'd been as noisy as a dead battery. I just did. And there she was.

I sat there for a moment and took a steadying breath, ignoring the instant dizziness. This happened occasionally. Part of the queen thing. The first time I'd been scared shitless. Ironically, I was terrified of dead things.

I wasn't used to it, exactly, but at least these days I didn't go tearing out of the room to cringe in the driveway.

"Um," I said.

She pulled her head out and looked at me, amazed. "You have a lot of shoes."

"Thanks."

"More than Payless."

I concealed a shudder. "Thanks." We stared at each other. She was a small strawberry blonde, about five foot nothing, with her hair pulled up in an I-Dream-of-Jeannie ponytail. She was blue-eyed and had lots of caramel-colored freckles all over her face and hands. She was wearing beat-up blue jeans and a booger-colored turtleneck. Battered black flats; no socks. Freckles on the tops of her feet, too.

"I'm, ah, sorry to bother you. But I think I-I think I might be dead."

"I'm really sorry to have to tell you this," I replied, "but you are."

She sat down on my floor and cried for about ten minutes. I didn't know what to say or do. I couldn't leave, though that was my first impulse-to give her some privacy. But I was afraid she'd take it the wrong way.

I couldn't touch her-my hands went right through ghosts, and it was horrible. Like plunging your limbs into an ice bath. So a supportive pat or hug was out of the question. "There, there" seemed unbelievably lame. So did going back to my journal. So I just stayed in my desk chair and watched her and waited.

After a while, she said, "Sorry."

"You're totally entitled."

"I knew, you know. I just-hoped I was wrong. But nobody-you're the only one-nobody can see me. The EMTs couldn't see me, and the guys in the morgue, and my boyfriend."

"How did you know to come here?"

"I-I don't know."

"Okay." Dammit! If the ghosts knew, nobody was telling. I didn't know if there was a sign outside my house ("She sees dead people") that only the dead could see, or what. Not that it made much difference. But I was curious.

She sighed. "I was hoping you could do me a favor."

"Sure," I said at once. I knew from experience that it was just easier (and quicker) to give them what they wanted. Otherwise, they hung around and talked to me at the most awkward moments. Ever been interrupted by a ghost while you're washing your hair? Or going down on your fiance? Awkward. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, the last thing I remember-the last time anybody else could see me-I had just run out of our apartment building. Mine and my boyfriend's. We had this big wicked fight because he thought I was cheating on him, but I swear I wasn't!"

"Okay."

"And if you could just-go see him? And tell him? I only had dinner with the guy twice. I wasn't going to do anything. It's Denny I love. I'm so mad I didn't realize that before running out in front of the-anyway. I hate the thought-I hate the thought-of Denny thinking to the end of his days that the last thing I did was cheat on him. I mean, I can't sleep for worrying about it." She paused. "Not that I could anyway. I think. But it's really bothering me. It-it really is."

"I'll be glad to go see him. I'll do it first thing tomorrow night."

"I live in Eagan," she said. Then she gave me excellent directions, which I wrote down in my journal.

"No problem at all. It's done."

"Thank you so m-" Then she looked extremely surprised and popped out of sight. This was also expected. It was like whenever they got whatever-it-was off their chests, they could go to... wherever.

Poor thing. I was getting all kinds. At least she didn't feel bad about stealing or a dead mom or criminal assault or something awful like that.

I went back to my journal and realized she'd never told me her name-and I'd never bothered to ask. This bothered me a lot... was I getting jaded? Well, obviously I was, but how bad?

Dammit.