—CHARLOTTE JEAN DAVIDSON

Still reeling from the potential identity of Dream Guy, I wrapped myself in the towel and slid open the shower curtain. Sussman poked his head through the door, and my heart took a belly dive into the shallow end of shock, cutting itself on the jagged nerve endings there.

I jumped, then placed a calming hand over my heart, annoyed that I was still so easily surprised. As many times as I’ve seen dead people appear out of nowhere, you’d think I’d be used to it.

“Holy crap, Sussman. I wish you guys would learn to knock.”

“Incorporeal being,” he said, giving attitude.

I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a squirt bottle from my vanity. “You set one foot in this bathroom, and I will melt your face with my transcendental pest repellent.”

His eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“No,” I said, my shoulders deflating. I had a really hard time lying to the departed. “It’s just water. But don’t tell Mr. Habersham, the dead guy in 2B. This bottle is the only thing that keeps that dirty old man out of my bathroom.”

Sussman’s brows arched as he scanned my lack of attire. “Can’t say that I blame him.”

I glowered and swung open the door, pulling it through his face and disorienting him. He put one hand on his forehead and one on the doorjamb to ride out the dizzy spell. Newbies were so easy. After giving him a second to get his bearings, I pointed to the sign tacked on the outside of my bathroom door.

“Memorize it,” I ordered, then slammed the door shut again.

“ ‘No dead people beyond this door,’ ” he read aloud from beyond the door. “ ‘And, yes, if you suddenly have the ability to walk through walls, you’re dead. You’re not lying somewhere in a drainage ditch waiting to wake up. Get over it, and stay the hell out of my bathroom.’ ” He stuck his head through the door again. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

My sign may have seemed a tad brutal to the untrained eye, but it usually got my message across. Unless it was Mr. Habersham. Him I had to threaten. Often.

Even with the sign, I tended to wash my hair as if the apartment were on fire. Dead people standing in the shower with me after the rinse cycle was a bit much. You’re never quite the same after a shotgun-blast-to-the-head pops in for tea and a sauna.

I pointed a sharp index finger. “Out!” I ordered, then turned back to the quandary that was my bruised and swollen face.

Applying foundation after you’ve been knocked on your ass was more of an art than a science. It required patience. And layers. But after the third layer, I ran out of patience and washed my face of the whole matter. Seriously, who was going to see me this early in the morning? By the time I pulled my chocolate brown hair into a ponytail, I almost had myself convinced that bruises and black eyes added a certain je ne sais quoi to my appearance. A little concealer, a little lipstick, and voilà, I was ready for the world. The question remained, however, Was the world ready for me?

I stepped out of the bathroom in a plain white button-down and jeans, hoping the generous expanse of bosom I carried would help me achieve a solid 9.2 on a scale of 10. I had br**sts aplenty. Just in case, I undid the top button to show more cle**age. Maybe no one would notice the fact that my face resembled a topographical map of North America.

“Wow,” Sussman said, “you look hot even with the slight disfigurement.”

I stopped and turned toward him. “What did you say?”

“Um, you look hot?”

“Let me ask you something,” I said, easing closer. He took a wary step back. “When you were alive, like, five minutes ago, would you have told some chick you’d just met that she looked hot?”

He thought about that a moment, then answered, “No. My wife would divorce me.”

“Then why is it the moment you guys die, you think you can say whatever you want to whomever you want?”

He thought about that a moment, too. “Because my wife can’t hear me?” he offered.

I stabbed him with the full power of my death stare, likely blinding him for all eternity. Then I grabbed my handbag and keys. Just before I shut off the lights, I turned back and said with a wink, “Thanks for the compliment.”

He smiled and followed me out the door.

* * *

Apparently, I wasn’t as hot as Sussman thought. I was freezing, in fact. And, naturally, I’d forgotten my jacket. Too lazy to go back for it, I hurried into my cherry red Jeep Wrangler. Her name was Misery, in homage to the master of horror and all things creepy. Sussman oozed into the passenger’s seat.

“The grim reaper, huh?” he asked as I clicked my seat belt.

“Yep.” I hadn’t realized he knew my job title. He and Angel must have had quite the talk. I turned the key, and Misery purred to life around me. Thirty-seven more payments, and this baby was all mine.

“You don’t look like the grim reaper.”

“You’ve met him, have you?”

“Well, no, not really,” he said.

“My robe’s at the cleaners.”

That got a sheepish chuckle. “And your scythe?”

I shot him an evil grin and turned on the heater. “Speaking of crimes,” I said, changing the subject, “did you happen to see the shooter?”

“Neither hide nor hair.”

“So … no.”

He slid his glasses up with an index finger. “No. I didn’t see anyone.”