"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gasped, ten minutes later. I couldn't believe she was still hee-hawing about ancient history. "It's just, you went there with such high moral intentions, and you didn't even last a single shift. And you limped for a week!"

"Rich people should never criticize the working class," I snapped.

"Hey, I work fifty hours a week at The Foot." Dammit, she was right. It had always been something of a mystery to me why she bothered. She pretended like the nonprofit was a tax shelter and she needed the break every April 15, but we all knew it was a lie. Bottom line was, she liked going there, liked seeing her dad's money teach welfare moms how to program computers and get good jobs.

She ran the place with an ever-shifting staff, and me. I did the books when she was between office managers. I didn't much mind the work, but I didn't live and breathe it the way Jess did.

"She seemed like a nice lady."

"Jess! She didn't say five words to us the whole time. She could be a drooling psychopath for all we know."

"Do you think some of the ghosts are bad guys? And ask you to help other bad guys?"

"Great. Because I didn't have enough awful things to contemplate." Horrible thought! One I immediately shoved out of my head.

"Sorry. It was just an idea. Do you think there are any old psychopaths?"

"Sure. They're not all killers, you know. It's a psych problem, like schizophrenia. It's not just the property of thirty-somethings. The ones who don't get caught prob'ly get old like any of us."

"I read somewhere that there aren't nearly as many psychopaths-sociopaths?-out there as the media want us to think. Something like one tenth of one percent of the population is a deviant sociopath."

"Well, good. Like the vampires aren't bad enough. They all seem like psychos to me."

"Tough one to argue," she admitted.

"You're right, though! It seems like every book, movie, and made-for-TV miniseries is about a brave young woman-always a shrink or an FBI agent-tracking down a serial killer who has mysteriously targeted her. Or her family. Or her dog. And she, along with the brave hero, must alone face the threat of the drooling nutjob-"

"Taking Lives wasn't so bad."

"Oh my God!" I shrieked, nearly driving into a stop sign. "Worst movie ever! I almost gave up on Angelina Jolie after that one."

"Too cerebral?"

"Oh, yeah, real cerebral. Jolie has sex with a guy who may or may not be the villain." Hmm, that didn't sound like anybody I knew, right? Argh. I shoved that thought into the tiny corner of my brain where I kept all bad thoughts: Prada going out of business, Sinclair coming to his senses and leaving me, me leaving him, the Ant moving in. "Jess, I love you, but-"

"Here we go."

"-you keep your taste in movies up your ass. I'm sorry, but it's true."

"Says the woman who bought Blade IV on DVD."

"That was research!"

"Oh, research my big black ass. You've got a thing for Wesley Snipes."

"First of all, what ass? And second, do not." I had pulled into our driveway, and we were just sitting in my Stratus, arguing, when I noticed that in addition to Jon's truck, there was a navy blue Ford Escort in my driveway.

Cop.

Detective Nick Berry, to be exact. I didn't have to see all the Milky Way bars on the passenger side floor to know, either. He'd had the same car ever since I'd known him.

"What's he doing here?" Jess asked.

I brought my head down so fast on the steering wheel, the car honked. "What now?" I groaned.

"Hmm, someone else who's desperately in love with you stopping by unannounced," Jessica said with annoying cheer. "Must be Tuesday."

"This is a serious problem."

"Oh, will you spare me please? 'I'm Betsy and I'm an eternally beautiful and young queen with the coolest guy in the universe boning me every night, and whenever he gets tired, other guys are lining up to take his place. Waaaaaah!' "

I gave her The Look.

"Sometimes," she admitted, "it's hard to empathize with your problems. Like they weren't trampling over me to get to you when you were alive."

"That's not true!" I said, shocked.

"What's more irritating-being invisible, or you not having a clue about your effect on men?"

"Jess, stop it. The last word I'd pick to describe you is invisible. You've dated senators, for God's sake."

She dismissed the Democrat with the great hair with a wave of her newly manicured hand. "Fortune hunter."

"Well, that one guy, no kidding. Okay, maybe there were three or four. But I'm just saying, having these guys popping up is a serious problem. And remember-half the time it isn't even me, it's my weird vampire mojo that's bringing them in. Like they say, just because they don't seem like problems doesn't mean they really aren't. Problems, I mean. For example, I'd like to have your tax troubles-"

"No, you wouldn't."

"Okay, I wouldn't. But I'm just saying. There are things going on in your life that I wish were going on in mine. Like lunch. Chewing. Sunrises."

"I'm usually in bed by then," she confessed.

"Well, you shouldn't be. Enjoy them while you can." It wasn't like me to be so serious about any particular subject, and I think she got it, because she just nodded and didn't make with the jokes.

"Before I get caught up in whatever fresh hell this is, please don't let me forget I'm supposed to baby-sit Baby Jon tomorrow night."

"Jon the Bee, Baby Jon the baby. Like that's not confusing. And don't forget your dad, John the Eternally Annoying."

"Don't give me anything new to worry about, I'm begging you."

"Me? It's not me, honey."

I got out to face the new problem. Maybe Nick was only there to break up my wedding. Sad when that was the cheerful thought I clung to.

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