Weddings from Hell

Chapter 1

"I look like a giant pineapple," I muttered. "Put a bowl of fruit on my head and I could give Carmen Miranda a run for her money."

How many ruffles did one dress need? Ruffles from waist to ankle—in shiny yellow taffeta, no less.

"I'm Chiquita Banana and I'm here to say, bananas need to ripen in a certain way…"

If I craned my neck just right, I could see in the mirror how the giant bow on my butt made my ass look at least four sizes bigger. The waist was too big, and the flat bodice and off-the-shoulder sleeves squashed my boobs down to nothing.

Not like they were big to begin with, but they were usually something.

And this particular shade of yellow was so not my color—it didn't go with the pink streaks in my hair.

"How are you doing? Need help with the zipper?"

I whipped the curtain to my dressing room back with a rattle.

"Oh," the saleslady smiled, clearly blowing smoke up my newly huge ass. "You look lovely."

"Are you sure this is the dress Debbie picked out?" I asked hopefully. "She said she was going to keep it simple." The stiff tulle of my underskirt rustled as I stepped forward—walking in this thing would be a nightmare, and I was going to have to do it in front of witnesses, with a smile pasted on my face.

The woman actually looked disappointed. "Don't you like it? All the other bridesmaids loved it."

That's because they're all morons, I thought to myself. Redneck morons.

Though to be fair, only half of the Hathaway clan were morons, the rest were idiots. Debbie and her three sisters would welcome the chance to dress up like a Brazilian bombshell in pineapple season, particularly if there were hats or ribbons involved.

Cousins on my mom's side, the Hathaway sisters made me glad I was adopted. But I knew my mom would've wanted me to do the right thing, and when Debbie called me out of the blue and begged me to be in her wedding, it had been Emily Styx's voice I'd heard in my head. "Family is everything, Nicki," she'd have said. Besides, as cousins go, Debbie had always been my favorite—I couldn't erase the mental image of the little tow-headed girl who used to follow me around at family reunions.

Which is why I'd driven an hour into the middle of nowhere to be fitted with one of the ugliest bridesmaid dresses I'd ever seen.

Taking my silence for consent, I suppose, the grimly cheerful saleslady ushered me up onto a pedestal in front of a wall of mirrors. I stared at myself in dismayed silence as she fluffed a few ruffles and tugged at the sleeves.

"And here's a lovely hat to complete the ensemble," she said, fake smile firmly in place.

I watched in horror as she held out a floppy yellow concoction, dripping with ribbon.

"You're not serious," I said, unable to muster even a pretense of politeness.

"Oh, but I am, dear," she answered, nodding. "It's your cousin's day, after all, isn't it?"

Her day. Her beautiful, precious, I'm-getting-married-and-you're-not day.

"No bride in the world is going to let a bridesmaid outshine them on their wedding day, dear," the woman said, not unkindly. "Now put your hat on and stand up straight. Time to break out the measuring tape if we're to have this dress ready by Saturday."

Ten minutes later I was still standing there, waiting impatiently while the hem was pinned; it was going to have to come up at least an inch and the ruffles made the pinning difficult. The shop door opened, and a woman came in. She was in her early twenties, dark hair in a messy ponytail, and stopped short when she saw me standing in front of the mirrors.

"That's my dress," she said, clearly surprised to see me in it.

The seamstress, whose name I'd learned was Bebe, looked up. "I have to get that door fixed," she said absently. "It keeps blowing open."

"Who are you?" the dark-haired girl asked me, "and why are you wearing my dress?"

Bebe ignored her, rising to her feet with a relieved sigh. "That's it," she said to me. "Be careful of the pins when you take it off."

"Hell-ooo," said the girl, obviously exasperated. "Cat got your tongue? I know you can see me. You're looking right at me."

My heart sank to the level of my newly pinned hem.

Not another one.

I glanced at Bebe again, hoping against hope that the seamstress saw the dark-haired girl, too.

Bebe gave me a quizzical look. "You okay, hon? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Ghosts, spirits, phantoms, spooks—call them what you like, just don't call them too loudly.

They might hear you.

Trust me. I know what I'm saying.

My life had changed in an instant a few months ago; one minute I'd been lying on the couch with what I thought was heartburn, the next minute I'd woken up in the hospital after being declared legally dead. In between I'd been to the Other Side—Heaven, Nirvana, or whatever it was. I thought of it simply as the "Light." The incredibly beautiful, amazingly wonderful Light, where I'd known everything, seen everything, and understood everything.

Until I'd regained consciousness.

And unfortunately, I'd brought a little extra something back from the Light with me: lifetime instructions to "do unto others as I would have them do unto me," and the ability to occasionally see and hear spirits.

And boy, did they wanna be heard.

"Yoo-hoo," said the dark-haired girl sarcastically, waving her arms in the air. "What the hell is going on? I've been in here three times today and every time she's acted like I'm invisible. If this is Debbie's idea of a joke, it's really getting old."

I shook my head, numbly, but didn't answer her. Instead, I spoke to Bebe. "Um, was someone else supposed to wear this dress?"

Bebe's eyebrows rose. "Well, yes…I thought you knew. In fact," she gestured vaguely toward the main counter, "when she was here for her fitting the other day, she left her cellphone in the dressing room. I don't suppose you know how to get hold of her? The only number she left me was the cell."

"Aha!" said the dark-haired girl. "So that's where my cellphone is. And I told you it was my dress!"

Bebe was beginning to look vaguely uncomfortable. "Your cousin Debbie called me that same afternoon and said Michelle had pulled out of the wedding. She said you'd be coming by, and asked me to refit the dress for you."

Great. Being a replacement bridesmaid made looking like a pineapple in public even more appealing.

Particularly when the girl I was replacing was dead.

And apparently, she didn't even know it.

The dark-haired girl must've read something in my eyes, because hers went wide.

"What the hell is she talking about? I never pulled out of the wedding. I just talked to Debbie a couple of days ago, right before I—" She stopped, brow furrowing. "Right before I—" Her image wavered, began to fade. "Oh, shit," was the last I heard, before she disappeared completely.

"You look a little pale, dear," Bebe said, touching my arm. "Why don't you sit down?"

"I just need to get out of this dress," I said faintly, and let her steer me toward the dressing room. As soon as the curtain closed behind me, I buried my face in my hands, knowing Debbie's upcoming wedding was going to be a wedding from hell, in more ways than one.

"How did I let myself get sucked into this?" I wailed into the phone. "I'm a replacement bridesmaid, and the dress is hideous! It makes me look like a giant fruit salad. With a hat." I deliberately didn't tell Evan that the bridesmaid I was replacing was dead. My best friend and business partner, Evan lived for fashion, and I knew it was easier for him to talk about that than my dubious "gift" of being able to see and talk to the dead.

"What did you expect, Nicki?" Evan wasn't the least bit surprised about the ugly dress. "You're lucky Debbie didn't stick you with a tube top and Daisy Duke shorts."

I sighed. "Yeah. At least there were no sequined flip-flops."

"Don't be in the wedding if you don't want to do it—come down with something contagious or something."

"I have to do it," I said glumly, finding myself, once again, in the position of having to explain why I was doing something I didn't want to do, for someone I didn't want to do it for. Do unto others, Nicki, as you would have them do unto you. "Debbie needs four bridesmaids to balance out the groomsmen, and she's only got three sisters." Darlene, Diane, and Donna. Or as I privately thought of them: Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest.

It wasn't their fault, really—the gene pool was obviously tainted. Debbie was okay in a clueless sort of way, but her sisters were another matter. Prickly as sandspurs, and just as irritating.

"Those cousins of yours are walking advertisements for birth control," Evan said, echoing my thoughts exactly. "Didn't your aunt know that she was supposed to swallow the pill instead of trying to hold it between her knees?"

"Well, since Uncle John never seemed to learn the alphabet past the letter 'D,' I imagine birth control was a foreign concept. They probably think oral sex means talking about it instead of doing it."

Evan laughed, and I felt a little better. A girl deserved to be snarky when she was going through an ugly bridesmaid dress crisis.

I stared out the window of my car at the parking lot of Bebe's Bridal. There was only one other car, a dusty old Camry that obviously belonged to the saleslady.

"I can't wait to get home. Joe promised to be waiting with a bubble bath and a glass of wine."

Evan made a purring noise. "Ooo, I need to get your hunky boyfriend and my hunky boyfriend together to talk about how to treat a lady."

"Forget it, you fairy," I said good-naturedly. "If you got your greedy little hands on Joe I'd never get him back."

I heard the distant tinkle of the shop bell through the phone, and knew that a customer had just come into Handbags and Gladrags. Our store was the coolest vintage shop in Little Five Points, Georgia, and Evan was manning it while I was out in the boondocks fulfilling family obligations.

"Push the Led Zeppelin t-shirts," I said, "we're over-inventoried."

"Climbing the Stairway to Heaven as we speak," Evan answered gaily. "Drive carefully."

He hung up, and I snapped the phone closed and dropped it on the passenger seat. Gripping the steering wheel in both hands, I let my head fall forward until it rested there, too. I closed my eyes and tried to think positively—I was doing it for Mom. Aunt Nadine was her only sister, which is how I'd ended up with such a dorky middle name.

Nicholette Nadine Styx, sucker extraordinaire.

"Don't be such a drama queen," my mom would've said, if she'd lived past my twenty-second birthday. "It's only one day. You can handle one day, can't you?"

"Yes, Mom," I replied dutifully, though there was no one there to hear it. Then I buckled my seat belt (another lesson from Mom), and started the car. As I was backing out of my space, I happened to glance at the saleslady's Camry again, and this time I noticed that someone had used their finger to write a message in the red clay dust that coated the passenger side door.

"Help Me," it said.

"Wash Me" would be more appropriate.

Making a mental note to run my little red Honda through the car wash when I got back to Little Five Points, I pulled out of the parking lot, already dreading my return visit to pick up the newly altered Carmen Miranda dress.

"Don't let her do it," came a woman's voice from the back seat.

"Shit!" I jumped, swerved and nearly drove myself into a roadside ditch.

"Don't let her," the voice repeated.

I slammed on the brakes, heart pounding. Afraid to turn around, I checked the rear view mirror.

Nothing.

Gathering my nerve, I swiveled my head to look, glad there was currently no traffic in Hogansville.

The back seat was empty, but there was a dark spot on the upholstery—it looked wet.

"What the hell?"

Thoroughly spooked, I sat there, engine idling. You'd think I'd be used to this sort of thing by now—the girl in the bridal shop wasn't the first spirit I'd ever seen, and somehow I knew she wouldn't be the last.

"Hello?" Speak now or forever hold your peace, Spirit. "Don't let who do what?"

No answer.

"Great," I muttered. "Just great." Hoping the spot was just water and nothing more ominous, I headed home.

If I checked the rear view mirror a little more frequently than I needed to, nobody knew it but me.

"You're really tense tonight, babe." Joe's fingers were working magic on my shoulders. The Cure's "Just Like Heaven" was playing on the CD player, and the lights were low.

"You would be, too, if you had to wear an ugly yellow dress like the one Debbie picked out."

He leaned down and nuzzled my ear. I could smell the clean scent of recently showered male, felt the brush of dark hair on my cheek. "It wouldn't make me tense. It would make me a cross-dresser."

"A tense cross-dresser," I said stubbornly. "In an ugly dress."

Joe laughed, using his thumbs to dig in deeper. "It's just one day, Nicki. You can handle one day, can't you?"

I shot him a look over my shoulder. "Have you been talking to my mom?"

The rubbing stopped. The magic fingers were removed. "You told me your mom passed away. You're not saying…"

I sat bolt upright. "No! I was kidding! Just kidding!" That would be way too weird, and my mom would never do that to me.

Joe sighed with relief. He knew all about my little problem with dead people, and more about my other problems than was probably good for him. But since he hadn't run away screaming into the night—yet—I dared hope he might be able to cope with them. "You haven't seen any ghosts for a while, Nicki. Maybe that part of your life is over."

It was my turn to sigh. "No such luck," I said. "I saw one today."

"What? Why didn't you tell me this sooner?" Joe came around the couch and sat down next to me, a look of worry on his handsome face.

I hated seeing it—he worried enough about his patients without having to constantly worry about me. Joe was an E.R. doctor at Columbia Hospital in Atlanta , which is how we'd met. He'd been the doctor who'd declared me dead, and the one who'd been there when I'd come back to life.

"Don't worry," I said, reaching to push his dark hair out of his eyes. It felt like silk under my fingertips. "Nothing happened. A girl came into the bridal shop, that's all."

Joe quirked an eyebrow. "That's all?"

He knew me too well.

"Evidently she was a friend of Debbie's who was supposed to be in the wedding." I grimaced. "Debbie didn't bother to mention that I was a 'replacement' bridesmaid. Anyway, whatever happened to her must've happened pretty quick—she hadn't yet realized that she was dead. Once she understood what was going on, she just faded away."

"One of your cousin's bridesmaids just died, and she didn't mention it to you?" Joe looked pretty skeptical.

"We're not exactly close," I said. "We'd see each other a few times a year when my mom was alive—holidays and stuff like that—hardly at all since my mom passed."

"And that's it? This girl, this spirit—she's gone?"

"Well, I thought I heard a voice coming from my back seat, but there was nobody there. It looked like there was a wet spot on the upholstery, but by the time I got home, it was dry. I could've imagined that part."

Joe made a disgruntled noise, leaning back against the cushions. "I don't like it."

Our romantic evening was heading downhill, and I wasn't about to let that happen.

"You men never like wet spots," I teased. "That's why we girls always end up sleeping on them."

A reluctant grin curled one corner of his lips. "Don't try and distract me."

I leaned over, resting my weight against his arm and bringing my lips closer to his. "Who said anything about try?" And then I kissed him, letting my tongue do the talking, without words this time.

His arms came around me, and before I knew it Joe was stretched out full length on the couch, with me on top. The growing bulge beneath my hip told me the evening was once again looking up.

The phone rang, but I ignored it; that's what answering machines were for.

"Hi, Nicki!" The volume was loud enough for Joe and I to hear the message being left. "It's your favorite cuz, Darlene. I cain't believe it, but Diane says she forgot to send you an invitation to Debbie's bridal shower—it's tomorrow at one, at the house." The "house" would be Aunt Nadine's rambling old place out in Hogansville. "She's registered at Target." Darlene pronounced it "Tarjhay," like pretending to say it in French made it haute couture or something. "Oh, and could you pick up some beer on the way over? Donna's supposed to, but I know she'll forget. See you then."

Click.

Somewhere in the middle of the message, Joe'd begun to smile. By the end, he was chuckling, despite the fact my lips were still glued to his. I opened my eyes to see his were open, looking straight into mine.

"Beer at a bridal shower?" he asked.

I sighed. "You don't know my relatives."

"I'm not sure I want to," he laughed.

Chapter 2

"Nicki!" Aunt Nadine enveloped me in a huge hug, smelling of hairspray and roses. "You look pretty as a picture, girl!" She pulled away to hold me at arm's length, her eyes roving over the pink streaks in my hair, taking in the three earrings in one ear and the necklace of black beads I was never without. "Always the fashion plate…and running your own business at your young age, too! Your mama would be so proud of the way you turned out."

Some of the tension eased from my shoulders. Aunt Nadine had always been sweet to me; it wasn't her fault she'd married into a family of rednecks.

"Is that Nicki?" boomed my Uncle John.

Speaking of rednecks.

"What'd you do, girl, fergit to wash the paint outta yore hair?" Another huge hug, this time smelling of cigarettes and beer.

"Hey, Uncle John," I said weakly, trapped against a husky plaid shoulder. "How are you?"

"I'm as nervous as a fox in a henhouse, that's what I am," Uncle John chuckled, letting me go. "Women everywhere I look today, and that's a fact."

"Get on outta here, John," Aunt Nadine said affectionately. "We hens got some cluckin' to do." She shooed him off with her fingers and he went, but not before chucking me under the chin, just like he'd done when I was a kid.

"You always were a wild one, girl," he said with a smile. "Pink hair and piercings—got any tattoos?"

"Go on, now," Aunt Nadine repeated, "and don't overdo it at the Moose Lodge or you'll be nursing a hangover come mornin'."

He grabbed her around the waist and whispered something in her ear, making her giggle and blush like a schoolgirl.

I couldn't help but smile. Then he gave me a wink and was gone, the screen door slamming behind him with a bang.

"Look who's here, girls," Aunt Nadine called out. "It's your cousin, Nicki, down from Atlanta ." She ushered me through the living room toward the back of the house, where a big family room overlooked the side yard, complete with an above-ground pool and an old swing set.

A squeal of joy came from the direction of the couch, barely enough warning to brace myself before Debbie's hug nearly knocked me over. Petite and blond, Debbie was the youngest of the Hathaway girls, and had always been the most bubbly. "You're here! You're here!" she cried. "Now we can get this party started!"

Judging by the amount of gaiety and laughter I'd interrupted, the party had started a long time ago. I hugged Debbie, Diane, Darlene, and Donna in turn, then went through a dizzying round of introductions to people I'd never met and would never remember. There were other relatives, too, but I barely knew them: Great-Aunt Ida, who was eighty if she was a day; second cousins Gina and Margaret; Darlene's little girls, Amber and Brittany.

"Sorry this was so last minute," Aunt Nadine said. "We waited until all the family could make it to town before we held the shower."

"Did you bring any beer?" Darlene whispered.

Aunt Nadine's introductions kept me from having to answer. "This is Alice, and her friend Bernice."

"Her partner," Darlene added as a murmured aside. "That's what we're supposed to be callin' it these days."

I smiled until my cheeks hurt, hugged everybody who needed hugging, then collapsed into a folding chair. The babble of voices around me continued without a pause, and I was glad to no longer be the center of attention. Luckily, Darlene had moved on to annoy someone else near the buffet table.

"Don't put that bowl of potato salad there," I heard her say irritably. "Put it at the other end, near the hot dogs."

"You must be the new girl." Alice 's friend Bernice was sitting next to me. She had short, graying hair, and wire-rimmed glasses.

"The new girl?" For a moment, I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Oh, you know," Bernice said, waving a chubby hand negligently. "That other girl was gonna be one of the bridesmaids, but I guess that ain't gonna happen now."

Ah. Keeping my voice low, I asked, "Yeah, I wondered about that. What happened to her?"

Bernice shrugged. "I dunno. She and Debbie had a fight or something."

A fight?

"Well, I'll be damned," came an indignant voice. "They don't even know I'm dead."

I turned my head, and there was the dark-haired girl from the bridal shop standing next to my chair. Unlike the last time I'd seen her, this time she was soaking wet, hair plastered to her head, clothes plastered to her body. "Here they are, partying along without me like nothing happened." She cast a scornful glance toward the buffet table. "Darlene didn't even get the decorations right. Those balloons were supposed to go on the mailbox so people could find the house."

"Go away," I whispered. "I can't talk to you now."

"I was here first," Bernice said, obviously offended. "Go sit over there if you got a problem with me."

Mortified, I felt heat rising to my cheeks. "I'm sorry," I said, "I wasn't talking to you."

Bernice gave me a skeptical glare, and then gave me the cold shoulder. She turned toward the woman on the other side of her, dismissing me.

The dark-haired girl gave a heavy sigh. Water dripped from her shirt onto the carpet. "I was supposed to make my special three-bean salad for this shower. My name's Michelle, by the way. What's yours?"

Refusing to answer, I shot her a warning look.

"Okay, okay," she said. "Not a good time. I get it."

"How you doing, Nicki?" My cousin Donna plopped into the chair on my other side. She'd gained quite a bit of weight since I'd seen her last, and her mousy brown hair could use a shampoo.

When I glanced back toward the dark-haired girl, she was gone.

"Fine, Donna. Good. Great." I forced a smile, glad my cousins were far enough apart in looks to keep their names straight. Debbie was the cutest, and the only blonde. Darlene was tall and red-haired, with a face like a hatchet; Diane and Donna both had brown hair, but Diane had always been skinny, and Donna had always struggled with her weight.

She was obviously fighting a losing battle, though the plateful of macaroni and cheese she was clutching was a clear indication why.

Potato salad, beer, and hot dogs with macaroni and cheese; Debbie's bridal shower was Carb Central, the hillbilly way.

Forcing myself to be sociable—Donna was my cousin, after all—I asked, "How are the wedding plans coming? Is Debbie nervous about the big day?"

Donna shrugged, eyeing her much younger, much prettier sister. "She's handling it pretty well, I think. At least she was, until that bitch Michelle pulled out on her."

I heard an outraged gasp behind me, and knew that my ghostly friend hadn't left the party just yet.

"Good thing you agreed to fill in as bridesmaid," Donna went on. "Debbie was ready to throw a full-fledged conniption fit, but toned it down to just a hissy when you said yes."

Anyone who's grown up in the South knows the difference between a hissy fit and a conniption fit; a hissy fit usually ends in tears, while a conniption fit can easily end up in a trip to the emergency room.

"What happened?" Might as well get the inside scoop.

"I'm not sure. Debbie said they had a fight a couple of days ago, but that's nothing unusual. They've been fighting and making up on a regular basis since junior high school. Anyway, Michelle up and drove back to Augusta in a huff."

That explained why nobody knew she was dead. If everybody thought she'd left town because she was mad at Debbie, nobody would be looking for her.

"That's a pretty sweater," Donna said. "Come from your store?"

Unlike Debbie's choice of bridesmaid dress, my cotton candy pink sweater looked great on me, and I knew it. The beaded black butterflies on the left breast and jet buttons down the front were the perfect touches.

"Yes," I answered, surprised Donna had even a passing interest in fashion. "Nineteen fifties, hand-knit."

Donna took a big bite of macaroni and cheese, speaking around it.

"Got any in my size?"

Um, no, we don't carry "ever-increasing."

"Vintage doesn't work that way. All of the stuff in my store is unique, one-of-a-kind. That's what makes it special."

"Well, la-dee-dah." Donna swallowed, then put down her fork and took a swig of whatever was in the cup she was holding.

Before I could respond, she got up and walked away, heading back toward the buffet table. "Ma," she called out, uncaring that a room full of women heard her, "looks like Buster peed in the house again. There's a wet spot on the carpet."

I closed the bathroom door behind me with a sigh of relief. The sound of laughter was muffled, but I could still hear Debbie's high-pitched giggles over the see-through nightie Great-Aunt Ida had given her. "If that don't get you some sugar, nothin' will!" the eighty-year-old had declared.

Since Debbie had been opening her gifts for some time, I'd felt safe enough to slip away for a few minutes. There were only so many crock pots one could "oo" and "ah" over, after all.

"Michelle?" I whispered. "Are you still here?"

"Yes," someone said morosely. The voice came from the bathtub.

The shower curtain was closed, so I very gingerly pulled it aside just enough to peek behind it, visions of the movie Psycho going through my head.

There was Michelle, slumped in the tub, fully clothed, and still very wet. "I figured this was the safest place to sit," she said, "since I'm dripping all over everything."

"Why are you wet?" I asked her. "You weren't wet when I saw you at the bridal shop yesterday."

"Beats me," she answered. "I was hoping you knew."

"How would I know?" I pulled back the shower curtain so we could see each other better and looked around, making sure the toilet seat was down before I sat.

"Well, you see dead people, don't you?" Michelle sat up in the tub, pushing damp hair behind her ears. "You obviously have some special powers or something. What am I doing here? What happened to me?"

Oh, crap. How was I supposed to help her pass on if she didn't know why she was still hanging around?

"Okay, look—what's the last thing you remember?" A detective I was not, but I'd give it a shot.

Michelle sighed, resting her elbows on her knees. "Debbie and I went to the bridal shop, and then we went shopping in Peachtree City . We were looking for something cute to wear on her honeymoon." She frowned, remembering. "We stopped at some Mexican place for lunch—we both had a couple of Margaritas. I made the mistake of asking her one too many times if she was sure she wanted to get married, and she got really pissed off."

Interesting.

"Why would you ask her that at this late date?" I was just trying to get a feel for things.

Michelle gave me a look. "Have you met Dale, the guy she's marrying?"

I shook my head. "No."

She sighed. "Debbie could do so much better. She could've stayed with me in Augusta, gotten a job, gone to school—gotten out of this dinky little town. They practically roll the sidewalks up at night around here."

Now that was something I could relate to. "Hogansville has sidewalks?"

Michelle smiled a little at that.

"You're her cousin Nicki, right?"

I nodded, thinking.

"I should've known when I saw the hair," Michelle said. "Debbie told me you were all Goth and everything. I didn't expect you to be so pretty."

"Um, thanks." What did she expect—the Bride of Frankenstein? Just because I liked to play with my hair and makeup didn't make me some kind of freak. A little extra eyeliner never hurt anybody.

"Debbie really likes you," Michelle said, almost wistfully. "She always thought you were cool. Thanks for filling in for me."

"You don't sound like you're mad at her," I said. "Must not have been much of a fight."

Michelle shrugged. "We've been best friends for years, even after I moved away. We've had a few spats, but we always make up." She looked away, tears filling her eyes. "Guess we won't be making up this time."

Oh, man. I was never good with tears—I usually left the tea and sympathy up to Evan, but Evan wasn't here. Making a game effort, I snagged a piece of toilet paper and offered it to her.

She tried to take it, but her hand went right through it.

"Damn," she said, "that keeps happening. I can think about being somewhere and then find myself there, but I can't touch anything or make anybody hear me." Michelle looked at me, swiping the tears from her eyes with her fingertips. "Except you."

"Can you…" I hesitated, finding my own thoughts a bit creepy. "Can you think yourself back into your body?"

I'm not sure how a ghost could actually turn pale, but that's what she did.

"I don't want to," she said, shaking her head.

"But if you did, you could come back and tell me where you are, and then I could go find you."

Convoluted logic, anyone?

Michelle shook her head again, harder this time. "No. It's dark, it's scary—"

A knock at the door made me jump. "Hello? Anybody in there?" The doorknob rattled.

"Just a minute," I called, jumping to my feet like I'd been caught doing something wrong.

When I glanced back toward the tub, Michelle was gone.

"Michelle?" I whispered.

No answer.

Just a damp bathtub and a racing heart.

Chapter 3

"You're not leaving, are you?" Debbie came up to me as I was telling Aunt Nadine what a lovely time I'd had (otherwise known as lying my ass off ). "It's Girls Night Out after the shower! We're going to the Long Branch —they just got a karaoke machine!"

Oh goody. Can we go by Sizzler first?

"Gee, Debbie, that sounds like fun but I've got a long day tomorrow. My partner's taking the day off and I need to be there early to open the store."

Her face fell. "But I thought…"

"Why don't you go, Nicki?" My Aunt Nadine gave me a reproving look, instantly reminding me of my mom. "It's Debbie's last night of fun before she gets married."

"Gosh, Mom, you make it sound like getting married means I'll never have fun again!" Debbie griped.

Aunt Nadine smiled at her, touching her hair. "Oh, you'll have fun, sweetie. Just a different kind, and maybe not as much. Once the babies come, everything changes."

Debbie wrinkled her nose. "Babies? Who said anything about babies?"

"Yeah, really." I grinned at Debbie, sharing a moment of understanding. "Dale's not one of those 'keep 'em barefoot and pregnant' types, is he?"

Debbie laughed, shaking her head. "Dale's in no hurry to start a family, thank the Lord." She grabbed my arm. "Say you'll come out with us, Nicki. It'll be so boring otherwise. Darlene acts like a pickled prune until she gets a few beers in her, and Donna and Diane will probably just bicker with each other all night."

"Sounds like fun," I said weakly.

"It will be," Debbie said, "I promise."

"Bad news, baby," I said into the phone. I was standing in Aunt Nadine's front yard, waiting for everyone to pile into her Dodge Caravan. Aunt Nadine was taking no chances with her girls, and had given Debbie strict instructions about either calling her or calling a cab when girl's night out was over. "I've been roped into going to Debbie's bachelorette party." I, of course, was taking my own car—I was hoping to slip out after a beer or two, and wasn't going to need a designated driver.

"That's not so bad," Joe said. "For a minute there I was worried you were going to tell me that you'd seen another ghost."

My silence told him all he needed to know.

"Crap, Nicki."

"Well, it wasn't another ghost, exactly. It was the same ghost." I realized I was chewing nervously on a cuticle and gave myself a mental slap. "The girl from the bridal shop. Her name's Michelle. She doesn't know what happened to her."

"And you're determined to find out, aren't you?" Joe didn't sound too happy at the prospect.

I gave a sigh, not bothering to deny it. "You know as well as I do how this usually goes, Joe. The spirits who come to me don't leave me alone until I help them, so I might as well get it over with. But that's got nothing to do with tonight." I hoped. "Aunt Nadine pulled the guilt card, and put me on the spot about going out with the girls. I'm just gonna have a beer or two, then slip out. The Long Branch Saloon doesn't really sound like my kind of place."

"The Long Branch Saloon? Where are you, Dodge City ?"

"Might as well be," I complained, watching as my cousins came down the front steps toward the van. "Hogansville apparently doesn't boast much in the way of night life. Country and western karaoke…yeehaw!"

It was Joe's turn to sigh. "Be careful, Nicki."

"I will."

"Call me when you're on your way home, okay?"

"Maybe you could wait up for me." I lowered my voice to the level of a sexy tease. "Beer and rednecks get me hot."

Joe gave a short bark of laughter. "Right. In that case, I'll break out the Pabst Blue Ribbon and greet you at the door wearing nothing but a John Deere cap."

I kept teasing. "Who knows? Maybe the Long Branch has a mechanical bull. You know what they say about mechanical bulls."

"No, what do they say about mechanical bulls?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure it's something sexy."

"It would be if you said it."

Awwww.

"How about I just give you the ride of your life when I get home instead?" I asked, as a reward for the compliment.

"Yeehaw!" Joe crowed through the phone, making me burst into laughter. "Ride 'em, cowgirl!"

When my cousins and I walked in the door of the Long Branch Saloon, the jukebox was blaring "I Beg Your Pardon, I Never Promised You A Rose Garden," which should have been my first clue to get the hell out of there. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes nearly knocked me over, and I immediately stepped in something sticky.

All I could do was be grateful I'd worn ankle boots instead of sandals.

The room seemed dark after the brightness of the late afternoon sun, but the earliness of the hour didn't seem to inhibit business much—the place was packed. It was obviously happy hour in Hogansville. A sea of cowboy hats and trucker caps turned in our direction as seven women spilled through the door.

"Hoo-ee," I heard a guy at the bar say, "the night is looking up."

I followed the pack of women—four cousins and two second cousins—to a pair of tables that had been cordoned off with rope. Real rope, not your average velvet-covered stuff, very classy. All the way there, I wondered how it could be physically possible to feel a roomful of rednecks eyeing your ass. Darlene untied the rope from one of the chairs and let it fall to the floor. Donna kicked it under the table, and we all took our seats.

The waitress, a tired-looking woman with big hair, came over. "First round is on me," Darlene said. "Long necks for everybody!"

Unimpressed, the waitress nodded and moseyed on back to the bar.

"Anybody up for some pool?" Diane asked hopefully.

"I am!" said second-cousin Margaret.

"Me, too," said Donna, and the three of them headed for the back, where two battered pool tables were currently in use by a couple of good ol' boys. Seeing the way Diane took her time choosing a cue, it was obvious she'd done this before. Margaret went straight to flirting with a guy who was waiting on his shot, and I knew it wouldn't be long before they'd have a game going.

"Mmm, mmm," Gina said, "I think I've just laid eyes on my next husband." Gina was round and short, with curly auburn hair and freckles. I was pretty sure she'd been married a couple of times already, but she wasn't wearing a ring.

"Which one?" Darlene asked, craning her neck to see who Gina was ogling.

"The one at the bar, in the blue plaid shirt."

Oh yeah, that narrowed it down.

"I like that one," Darlene said, pointing. "The one with the black cowboy hat. Reminds me of Tim McGraw."

"Darlene!" Debbie giggled, pretending to be scandalized. "What would your husband say?"

Darlene shrugged her thin shoulders. The sparkly green top she was wearing actually suited her; her red hair gleamed like flame, taking attention from her not-so-pretty face. "Married ain't the same as dead, Debbie. You'll find out soon enough."

Right on cue, I looked up to see someone who really did know what it was like to be dead. Michelle, Debbie's former bridesmaid, stood against the wall, watching us with an envious expression on her face.

Though what she had to be envious of, I had no idea. I'd gladly have traded places with her, if I didn't have to be dead to do it.

"So you got a boyfriend, Nicki?" Gina turned her attention from the guy at the bar long enough to make small talk.

I nodded, tearing my eyes from Michelle. She looked so lonely standing there. "Yes, his name is Joe. He's a doctor at Columbia Hospital ."

"A doctor?" Gina leaned back, obviously impressed. "Good for you."

The comment irritated me. It wasn't like I'd chosen him because of his profession—I'd chosen him because he was a great guy.

A great, hot guy.

"Is he coming to the wedding?" Debbie had no idea her best friend was standing in the shadows, watching her. She was so caught up in her own fantasy of happily-ever-after that it hadn't occurred to her some people might not be.

Living happily ever after, that is.

"He's coming," I said.

"Eight long necks," said the waitress, sliding a tray onto our table. "You girls want me to run you a tab?"

"Hell, yeah," Darlene said. "We got some partying to do; my baby sister's getting married!" She snatched up her beer and gestured for us to do the same. "To Debbie and Dale—may they share everything, including housework!"

"Amen!" said Gina, as we clinked our long necks.

The beer tasted good, and I tried to look on the bright side. A couple of these and I was out of here.

Gina and Darlene put their heads together, sizing up all the different men at the bar, while Debbie turned her blond head toward me.

"Do you think you'll ever get married, Nicki?" She took another swig of her beer while she waited for my answer.

I hesitated, and that seemed answer enough for her.

"Probably not, hm? Why should you? You've got your own business, your own house…" Her voice trailed off, and she took another sip. "You don't need a man to take care of you."

"See what I mean?" Michelle's voice made me jump. She slid into the empty seat beside Debbie, watching her friend closely. I couldn't help but notice she was dry again, looking much the way she had when I'd first seen her in the bridal shop.

Debbie, of course, didn't see her.

"She doesn't want to get married—she's just doing it because she doesn't think she has a choice," Michelle said.

"Everybody has a choice about whether or not to get married," I said.

Debbie, thinking I was talking to her, answered, "I know. But I love Dale—really I do." Her voice sounded a little wistful, and she didn't meet my eye.

"Methinks she doth protest too much," said Michelle. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms.

I ignored the dead girl, and spoke to the live one.

"You don't have to go through with it if you don't want to, Debbie," I said softly.

Debbie shrugged. "You sound like my friend Michelle."

"Wasn't Michelle supposed to be in your wedding?"

Debbie shot me a guilty look. "Well, yeah. But she got mad at me and drove home to Augusta . She hasn't returned any of my calls."

"She's been calling?" Michelle sat up.

"I think she's just jealous," Debbie went on. "She claims she never liked Dale, but I think she has a crush on him."

Michelle gave a gasp of outrage, but Debbie didn't hear it.

"Why would you say a thing like that, Debbie?" Michelle seemed to have momentarily forgotten that Debbie couldn't see or hear her.

"Um, why would you say a thing like that?" I asked, on Michelle's behalf.

Debbie took another swig of her beer. "I don't know—just the way she looks at him sometimes. Michelle doesn't seem to have a lot of luck with guys. She goes for the flashy type, frat boys with money or football jocks with big shoulders and big egos. A couple of dates, and then they dump her. Dale's not flashy, but he's solid."

"Oh, he's solid all right." Michelle was disgusted by Debbie's assessment. "About as solid as a block of wood." She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "And just as exciting."

"I think in her heart she wants a guy like Dale." Debbie looked thoughtful, staring down at the battered tabletop, marred by years of spilled beer and cigarette burns. "Somebody to depend on. Somebody to grow old with." She shrugged, toying with the label on her beer bottle. "Dale's not perfect, but who is? Nobody's perfect."

The jukebox seemed to be eavesdropping on our conversation, because right then Tammy Wynette started singing "Stand By Your Man"—an annoying song I'd always hated. If my man ever cheated on me, I wouldn't be standing by him; I'd be standing on him, preferably while wearing a very sharp stiletto heel.

"Michelle's always been my best friend," Debbie said. "I can't believe she's not here to help me celebrate." Her lower lip quivered as she raised the bottle of beer again. After a few healthy swallows, she set it down empty.

"I—I think I need to tell you something, Debbie." I had no idea how I was supposed to explain to my cousin how I knew her best friend was dead, but things couldn't go on like this.

"No." Michelle interrupted me. She leaned toward me, shaking her head emphatically. "You can't tell her yet."

I looked at her, raising my eyebrows in question.

Michelle shot Debbie a glance, then sighed. "She's about to get married. I don't want to ruin her wedding. Tell her afterward."

"And what about you?" Was I supposed to just let this poor girl's unquiet spirit just hang out until the "I do's" had been said?

"I'm fine," Debbie answered my question, thinking it was meant for her. "But I could use another beer."

Darlene chose that moment to lean in and say to her sister, "Well, look who's here." She tipped her bottle toward the door, and we all swiveled our heads to look. "I knew that man wouldn't be able to resist crashing the party."

Two guys had just come in, both of them standing tall and scanning the room, obviously looking for someone. The better-looking of the two saw us first, his face splitting into a broad grin. He nudged his friend, nodding in our direction, and they made their way over to our table.

"Dale!" Debbie stood up, reaching up to hug her fiance even as she scolded him. "You're not supposed to be here! This is my night to let loose and have a little fun, remember?"

"Oh, I remember," Dale said, grinning. "And I'm not stayin'. I'm just here to let all these yahoos know you're already taken." He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against him, raising his voice to be heard above Tammy Wynette's whiny singing. "Listen up, fellas!" Dale looked around the room, making certain he had everyone's attention. "This here's my future bride, so don't any of you bone-heads be getting any ideas! I'll kick the ass of anybody who tries anything!" The idiot grin on his face made it hard to take him too seriously. "Her friends are fair game,"—to my horror, he nodded toward the table where Gina, Darlene, and I still sat—"but I done got me the pick of the litter!" Then he swooped down and bent Debbie backwards in a big, sloppy kiss, while his friend—and everybody else in the bar—looked on.

"Woo-hoo!" Somebody shouted, "Get 'er, Dale! Show the little lady who's boss!"

"Yeah!" shouted somebody else. "It's the last chance you'll ever get! After Saturday, she'll be the one wearing the pants in the family."

Dale broke off his kiss long enough to raise his head and shout back, "Fuck that! After Saturday, ain't neither of us gonna be wearing pants for a while!"

The room erupted into laughter, while I cringed inwardly at his crudeness. Debbie buried her face in Dale's shirt, embarrassed but laughing.

I looked for Debbie's ghostly friend Michelle, but she was gone.

"Hoo-ee," said Dale's friend, a skinny guy with a buzz haircut and a belt buckle the size of a small hubcap. He was eyeing me like I was a prize heifer at the county fair, and I didn't like it. "Who's your friend, Debbie?"

"This is my cousin Nicki," Debbie said, turning to face me. "She's gonna be one of my bridesmaids. Isn't she pretty?"

"She sure is," Buzzcut said, leering. He pulled out Debbie's chair without asking and took a seat at the table next to me. "Nice to meet you, Nicki. My name's Randy. Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?"

"Oh by all means, Randy," I answered sweetly. "Then keep on walking."

Randy and Dale burst out laughing like that was the funniest thing they'd ever heard, and I got my first real whiff of whisky breath. These two guys had been partying long before we girls had even started.

"C'mon, darlin', don't be like that. Lemme buy you a drink."

"I've got one, thanks." I looked away, taking a sip of beer to prove it. Maybe if I ignored him, he'd leave me alone.

"You're one of them dead girls, aren't ya?"

That got my attention. "Excuse me?"

"You know, one of them girls that's all into death and doom and gloom. Crosses and seances and all that shit." Randy waggled his fingers in what was supposed to be a spooky way, I guess. "I hear dead girls are easy—so why you making it so hard, baby?"

The way he was leering at me made it clear he thought his little double entendre was very clever.

"You're drunk, Randy," Debbie said flatly. "Leave Nicki alone."

I appreciated Debbie's effort, but I could take care of myself. I looked Randy in the eye and asked, "Are you always this stupid, or is today a special occasion?"

Dale let out another whoop of laughter, causing heads to turn our way yet again. "Randy's got a real way with the ladies," Dale said to me, when he'd stopped laughing. "You better watch yourself."

"Great idea," I said sourly, rising from the table. "I think I'll go look for a mirror."

"You going to the little girl's room, Nicki?" Darlene stood up, too. "I'll go with you."

I didn't answer, having to squeeze by a too-close-for-comfort Randy and a still-entwined Debbie/Dale sandwich before I could even start looking for the restroom.

"It's over here," Darlene said, with a tilt of her red head toward the back.

I followed her, weaving my way past tables full of blue-collar guys with shit-eating grins on their faces. Women seemed to be scarce at the Long Branch , or maybe they were just all at home with the kids while their husbands whooped it up over a cold brew.

Not that there was anything wrong with blue-collar men, mind you—as long as they weren't blue-collar jerks. But I had a feeling that the jerk factor in this particular bar was pretty high.

Darlene led the way down a narrow corridor toward two doors marked "Bulls" and "Heifers," and pushed open the door to ladies room. It smelled like cheap perfume and sour vomit—exactly what I'd expected. A coin-operated vending machine hung on the wall, displaying condoms, tampons, and breath mints.

Prerequisites in a place like this, I suppose. One never knows when one will be kissing, cramping, or canoodling with the redneck of your dreams.

"That Randy is such a creep. He thinks he's a real stud," Darlene said, heading into one of the stalls. "Don't let him get to you."

"Thanks," I said, glad my initial impression had been confirmed, "but I think you just insulted a horse."

I could hear Darlene chuckling through the stall door. "You got spunk," she said. "I'll give you that."

Since I'd only come into the bathroom to get away from Randy, I put my purse on the counter and started digging for my lipstick. When I glanced up, my heart nearly stopped at what I saw reflected in the mirror.

Michelle was standing behind me, soaking wet again. Her lips looked blue, and her skin had taken on a waxy tone.

"You have to get out of here," she said, "or you'll be next."

"You are creeping me out," I answered, frozen in place with a tube of lipstick in my hand.

"What?" Darlene's voice came from the stall. "Did you say something?"

Flustered, I stuck my lipstick back in my purse. "I said Randy creeps me out," I lied, loudly.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. He's been sniffin' around Debbie like a dog in heat ever since high school, but she ain't never give him the time of day. Don't know how Dale can stand hanging around a low-life like him, but there ya go."

The toilet flushed, and Darlene opened the stall door. "Must be a guy thing, I guess, or else Dale's just used to it. They work together at the garage."

She came over to the sink to wash her hands, narrowly missing walking right through Michelle, who didn't bother to move out of the way.

In fact, Michelle looked lost in thought, and very, very sad. Her gaze had turned inward, and she paid no attention to Darlene whatsoever. Water dripped from her clothes and hair.

Stalling, I fumbled in my purse again, this time bringing out a tube of eyeliner along with the lipstick.

"Don't you get tired of getting all glammed up everyday?" Darlene eyed me curiously in the mirror as I touched up my lips. "It takes me forever to put on makeup and strap myself into a push-up bra."

I shrugged, not understanding women who didn't want to make the effort to look good. "It doesn't take me that long." Which was true. "Besides, I deal with the public all day. It pays to look good when you sell fashion for a living." Then I paid her an honest compliment. "You look great, by the way—however long it took you tonight, it was worth it."

Darlene looked surprised, but pleased. "Thanks. I guess it don't hurt to get fixed up now and then." She eyed herself in the mirror and stood up straighter, drying her hands with a paper towel. "Well, I'm going back out. You comin'?"

"In a minute. You go ahead."

"Well, hurry up," Darlene said as she left. "Karaoke starts in five minutes."

Gee, I can hardly wait.

"He's here," Michelle said, before the bathroom door had even swung shut. "You have to go."

"Who's here?" I turned to face her, doing my best to control a shudder of distaste. Michelle looked different every time I saw her, but this time was definitely the worst.

She looked…well…dead. Really dead. As in several days dead.

"When I saw him, I remembered," Michelle said, twisting her hands together nervously. The memory obviously upset her. "He followed me from the restaurant after the fight I had with Debbie—he must've seen me in the parking lot or something. I should never have pulled over."

"Who followed you?"

Michelle kept glancing toward the door as if she was afraid whoever she was talking about was going to walk in any minute.

"Randy. It was Randy—he was waving and flashing his lights—I thought there was something wrong. When I pulled over he got out of his car and told me my rear tire was almost flat. Offered to fix it for me." Michelle was shaking now, very agitated. "I was so stupid; I should've known better than to trust him. I thought since he was a friend of Dale's it'd be okay."

The bathroom door swung open to the sound of giggles and the blare of country music. Three women I didn't know spilled into the room, laughing at something someone had just said.

"Ew," said one. "It smells like somebody died in here."

"Yeah," said one of the others, wrinkling her nose, "and watch out—there's a puddle of water on the floor. Don't they ever clean this place?"

Michelle's face twisted, and she started crying, tears lost on her already wet cheeks. She faded away to nothing as I watched, powerless to say or do anything to stop her.

"You two go ahead," said the third girl, stepping gingerly toward the sink. There were only two stalls in the ladies room, and not much room at the sink, either.

Since I didn't feel like standing there like an idiot, I snatched up my purse and left the bathroom.

"Fire on the mountain; run, boys, run; the devil's in the house of the rising sun." Charlie Daniels singing about how the devil came down to Georgia sounded weirdly appropriate at the moment, and the urgency of the song fit my mood.

I needed to get the hell out of the Long Branch Saloon, for more reasons than I cared to think about.

Unfortunately for me, Debbie and her sisters had other ideas. I had to sit through an excruciating round of karaoke music, which included a very tipsy Debbie mangling Madonna's "Like A Virgin," and a tone-deaf Diane singing "Hey, Good-Lookin'" to the guys playing pool.

Luckily, Randy and Dale were nowhere to be seen, and I could only assume they'd moved on to do their drinking elsewhere. The whole time my ears were being assaulted, my brain was working—how could I accuse some guy I just met of murdering somebody? Where was Michelle's body? Where was my proof?

Darlene did a passable version of Shania Twain's "I Feel Like A Woman," but by the time Gina got up to sing "I Will Survive," I'd had enough, and pulled the old fake phone call routine, scrabbling in my purse for a phone that wasn't ringing.

"Hello?" I put a finger in my ear like I was having trouble hearing the person on the other end. "The store alarm?" I glanced at my watch, pretending to care what time it was. "No, it's after closing. Nobody should be there at this hour. Okay, Evan, I'll meet you there." Darlene gave me a sour look across the table, which told me she wasn't buying it, but Debbie was working on her fifth beer and singing along with Gina, so she wasn't paying attention anyway.

"That was my partner, Evan," I said to Darlene. "There's an emergency at the store. I gotta go."

Darlene merely shrugged and took another sip of beer, but as soon as I stood up, Debbie grabbed my arm. "Where ya goin', Nicki?" Her voice was definitely slurred, but her face was flushed and happy. "The party's just getting started."

I looked down at her, knowing why her friend Michelle wanted me to keep quiet until after the wedding, but not liking it. Still, I knew she was right—Debbie deserved to have a little fun before she married Dale and gave birth to a litter of little rednecks.

And there was no saving Michelle, because what happened to her had already happened.

"I'm sorry, Debbie, but the alarm's going off at the store. I have to go."

She looked disappointed, but a wild whoop from the direction of the stage distracted her long enough not to argue. Instead, she rose to her feet and threw her arms around my neck in a farewell hug. "Bye! See you at the church on Saturday!"

"Hoo-ee," somebody shouted, "girl-on-girl action! When's the wet t-shirt contest?"

"In your dreams, buddy," I muttered, returning Debbie's overenthusiastic squeeze. Then I waved a good-bye to the rest of my cousins and headed toward the door.

Chapter 4

The parking lot was full, and so was the moon. It hung low in the sky, reminding me that the evening was still young. If I drove fast, Joe and I would have plenty of time to rustle up some real fun when I got home.

I'd just slid my key into the door of my car when I heard a man's voice say, "Mmm, mmm, mmm."

I whirled, gasping, and saw a shadow disengage itself from a pickup truck parked nearby.

"You are one fine-lookin' woman." The shadow raised a hand, and I saw it was clutching a bottle—too big to be a beer bottle. "Ready for that drink yet?"

The man took a step forward, while I shrank closer to my car. The moonlight gleamed on a big, shiny belt buckle.

Randy.

I took refuge in bravado, though my heart was pounding so hard I was afraid he'd hear it. "What the hell are you doing out here? You scared me shitless!"

"I've been waiting for you, baby." Randy took another step toward me. "No need to play hard to get—ain't nobody here to see. Just you and me and the moon." Waving the bottle toward the sky, Randy threw back his head and howled drunkenly, like the beast he was.

If Michelle was telling the truth—and I had no reason to believe she wasn't—this guy was a murderer. And he was here, alone with me, in a dark parking lot.

"You're drunk," I said flatly. "Leave me alone."

"Hell, yeah, I'm drunk," he said, grinning widely. "Drunk on loooove, baby. Don't you feel it?"

I fumbled with my car keys, twisting then pulling as I tugged on the door handle.

Randy came up behind me so fast I couldn't avoid him. In two seconds he had me pushed up against the car, his body pressed hard against me, pinning me in place. "I said, don't you feel it?"

Problem was, I did. His erection pressed against my hip, frightening me more than I cared to admit.

Without thinking, I elbowed him, hard.

His breath left him with a whoosh, drowning me in the sour smell of whisky. He stumbled back, but not far enough. There was a sloshy thud as the bottle he'd been holding hit the ground.

I barely managed to get the car door cracked open before he slammed me against it again.

"Oh, you're gonna pay for that, bitch." His breath made me want to retch, and this time he wrapped his arms around me, tight. "Think you're too good for old Randy, don'tcha?"

I squirmed and twisted, trying to break free, but I had no room to maneuver. One short squeal was all I managed before Randy's hand clamped over my mouth. The scent of oil and gasoline rose from his skin.

"Uh, uh, uh," he said, breath rasping in my ear. "You city bitches are all alike." Then he laughed, and my blood ran cold. "But you're all the same under them fancy panties."

"Let her go!" Another man's voice, saying words I'd never been so glad to hear in my entire life.

Randy barely even flinched. He didn't even bother to turn around, just spoke over his shoulder. "Mind your own damn business. This is between me and the little lady."

"The hell it is."

A sudden wrench as Randy's shoulder was grabbed and pulled in the direction of the newcomer. I twisted and squirmed even harder than before, managing to raise a foot against the car and kick backward. Randy stumbled back, but didn't loosen his grip, keeping me pinned with my arms at my sides. Frantically, I flailed my legs, feeling my heels connect against his feet and ankles.

Damn cowboy boots.

Desperate, I jerked my head backward, hearing Randy's grunt of pain as my skull connected with his chin. Despite the sudden flare of stars, it was worth it to know I'd hurt him.

Then I felt myself ripped from Randy's painful embrace, and pushed away. Shaken and unsteady, I fell to the ground a few feet away.

"You okay, babe?" A little distance and some moonlight showed my rescuer clearly. His face looked like thunder, and his eyes were trained on Randy.

"Joe," I whimpered, hating how shaky I sounded. Thank God.

Further conversation was impossible as Randy launched himself at Joe, tackling him to the ground. I rose to my feet, heart racing, as the two men rolled and grappled in the dirt of the parking lot. One second Randy was on top, then Joe would get the upper hand. I wanted to cheer when Joe's fist connected with Randy's ribs, and cry when Randy's return blow drew a grunt of pain from Joe. Then Joe kicked himself free of Randy's grip and gained his feet, cracking Randy a good one on the chin on his way up.

Randy fell backward, momentarily stunned. Between the liquor he'd obviously consumed and the blows he'd taken, his head had to be spinning.

"You sorry bastard," Joe said, breathing hard. "Attacking defenseless women in dark parking lots. Is that the only way you can get a date?"

"Defenseless, my ass," I said. To prove it, I snatched up the discarded whisky bottle at my feet and wielded it like a club. I was shaking with fear and rage, but the fear had definitely lessened since Joe showed up. "He just caught me off guard."

"I'm gonna kick yore ass," Randy moaned, twisting to the side to push himself up.

"Bring it on, Cornpone," Joe taunted, clearly furious and ready to go another round.

I'd never seen Joe like this—his job was to heal people, not hurt them—but he obviously had no trouble inflicting pain when he needed to.

A teeny part of me was thrilled. Okay, a big part of me was thrilled. If anybody needed some pain inflicted, it was Randy.

My gloating was short-lived. Randy had gained his feet, swaying slightly. Moonlight glinted on something he held in his hand, and with a sinking heart, I shouted, "He's got a knife!"

Joe didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, grabbing Randy's wrist with one hand, his shoulder with the other. Another brief struggle, until Joe's knee came up and caught Randy right where it hurt.

Randy froze, eyes bugging, his agonized wheeze bringing joy to my heart. Joe was still moving, twisting Randy's arm behind his back before giving him a hard shove. Randy went down face-first, and Joe stood there alone, holding the knife.

Randy curled into a ball, drawing his knees up tight. The next sound we heard was retching as he emptied his stomach in the dirt.

I hoped he'd choke on his own vomit.

Joe threw the knife into the bushes that ringed the parking lot and came over to gather me in his arms. "You okay? Did he hurt you?"

Not taking my eyes from Randy, I held on to Joe for all I was worth. I was still clutching the empty whisky bottle, not ready to let it go yet. "I'm okay." I was shaking like a leaf, dammit. "Where'd you come from? How'd you find me?" Not that it mattered—Joe was here, warm and solid, breathing hard but thankfully breathing.

"Google Maps," he muttered into my hair. "You told me the name of the bar, and I had a bad feeling." He turned us a little so he could keep an eye on Randy, too. "Beer, rednecks, and my gorgeous, fiesty girlfriend; not a good mix."

I couldn't help but laugh a little. "You know me too well."

"Not nearly well enough," Joe said softly, letting me bury my face against his neck. "But I'm working on it."

Randy moaned, drawing our attention. He dragged himself to his knees, then pushed himself to his feet, stifling another groan. Without another word, he staggered toward his pickup truck, bent over and holding his belly.

Joe started after him, but I tightened my fingers in his shirt. "Let him go," I said. "Let him crawl back into his hole."

"Nicki," Joe clearly didn't like that idea. "He pulled a knife on me; who knows what he would've done to you if I hadn't shown up."

"Oh, I know what he would've done." I couldn't help the involuntary shudder that rippled through me, and remembered what my mom always called that particular feeling: somebody just walked over my grave.

"I'm calling the cops," Joe said grimly.

The truck's engine roared to life.

"Not yet."

Clearly frustrated, Joe looked from the truck to me. "Why not?"

Another shadow moved in the parking lot, one I'd known had been there all along. Michelle stepped into the ring of light beneath the single lamppost, staring at me silently.

"Because we have to follow him," I said.

Chapter 5

The One-Stop Body Shop was a dump, but it was a dump that sent a chill down my spine, and not just because of the name.

It was a garage like many other garages, a run-down building with three big dented and rusty steel doors closed and padlocked against thieves, a small office with glass windows overlooking a dirt parking lot that held four cars and one pickup truck.

Randy's pickup truck.

What sent a chill down my spine was the big retention pond in the field beside it, and the way the moonlight glistened on the slick, oily surface of the water. Once there'd been a chain-link fence surrounding the pond—now there were just a few sections left, sagging and covered with kudzu vines.

It hadn't been hard to follow Randy here. We'd had a guide, after all. Now that Michelle's spirit knew and remembered what had happened to her, she had no trouble directing us down the main roads to the One-Stop.

I was worried about her, though. Other than a few sparse words telling me when to turn and where, which I'd relay to Joe, she said nothing. Her eyes looked haunted, which was weird, considering she was the one doing the haunting.

"This is it," Michelle said, as we drove slowly past. "He has a room in the back."

I looked at Joe, nodding, and he pulled over to the side of the road beneath some trees a few hundred yards away.

"This is a really bad idea, Nicki." Joe put the car in park a little harder than he needed to. He glanced in the back seat, which to him must've appeared empty. "I mean, what are we gonna do, go in and make a citizen's arrest or something? We have no proof this guy did anything except assault you in the parking lot; no proof he murdered anybody." He checked the back seat again, a little self-consciously. "I mean, I'm sorry for your friend Michelle, but we're out of our league here."

"If we find Michelle's body, that's all the proof we'll need," I argued.

"You won't find me," Michelle said hollowly. "Not without scuba gear."

I was trying hard not to look at Michelle any more than I needed to—ever since she'd seen Randy at the bar she looked more and more like a corpse, and less like the college girl she'd once been. Her dark hair hung in damp rat-tails, and her skin had taken on a greenish tint.

"She's in the pond," I said to Joe. "Maybe we can find her car or something, get the police to come out and investigate."

Michelle spoke up again, sounding more despondent by the minute. "The car's in the pond, too. Everything's down there." She was staring out the window, toward the garage.

"We have to do something." I was beginning to get annoyed with her attitude. Here we were trying to help her, and she was giving up before we'd even begun. "Do you want him to get away with this?" I would've reached out and given her a good shake if she'd been real. "Do you want him to do it to someone else? Darlene said he was always sniffing around Debbie—what if he decides to go after her next?"

That got her attention. "Debbie," she said, almost as though she'd forgotten her best friend. "That's why he did it, you know." The circles beneath her eyes made them look sunken, which I supposed they were. "He's mad because he can't have her. They went out a couple of times in high school, but now she's marrying Dale and he has to stand up there in a monkey suit and watch while it happens." The way Michelle recited the words told me they came from memory. "She thinks she's too good for him; I think I'm too good for him." He'd said the same words to me. "We fucking bitches are all alike."

"Stop it!" I couldn't listen to it anymore—Randy's foul words coming from the mouth of a dead girl—a girl he'd murdered with no more thought than squashing a bug. And for what? Unrequited love? Jealousy? Revenge?

"Nicki." Joe's hand on my knee brought my attention back to him. "I say we call the police and report the guy for assault. They'll come out here and talk to him, and maybe they'll find something."

"Or maybe not." I didn't have a whole lot of faith in the local police—this was rural Georgia , not New York City . A town like Hogansville probably had two deputies, tops. And they were probably off having fried chicken at Popeye's or something. "Besides, it's my word against his."

"Our word against his, remember? At the very least, it'll rattle his cage," Joe insisted. "He won't like having cops snooping around if he's been up to no good."

"Don't worry," Michelle said, though Joe couldn't hear her. "I'll rattle his cage. He'll be begging for the cops when I'm done."

I turned back to her, glad to see that the empty light in her eyes had been replaced by something else. Anger, and a calculated gleam that should've made me nervous, but instead made me optimistic.

"What do you have in mind?" I asked, ideas of my own beginning to percolate.

Michelle glanced out the car window again. "You can see me," she said, obviously thinking out loud. "If you can see me, maybe we can make him see me, or at least make him think he sees me."

I grinned, liking the way this was going.

"We both have dark hair," Michelle said, "and we're about the same size."

Joe was watching me, and when he saw my face light up, he began to shake his head. "No, Nicki. Whatever it is you're thinking, the answer is no."

I leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on his non-responsive lips. "That's not what you said last night."

He wasn't in a playful mood. "This isn't a joke. The guy's a murderer!"

Michelle and I looked at each other, and I knew I couldn't just walk away.

"Yep." I nodded. "And he's about to be one very freaked-out murderer."

The bad part about this plan was that I had to get wet; the good part was that Joe had a plain white t-shirt in his gym bag, so I didn't have to ruin my pretty pink sweater. I mean, I wanted to help and all, but one-of-a-kind, designer vintage that fit me like a glove was hard to come by.

The t-shirt was perfect—way too big for me, so it fell nearly to my knees. The extra fabric made it look like a shroud. And I didn't have to go near the scummy, oily pond; there was a hose on the side of the building furthest from the office, so I gritted my teeth and let Joe hose me down.

The whole time, Joe was grimly silent, but I knew I was gonna hear about this later. I even suspected he took some satisfaction in dousing me with freezing water from the hose, but I couldn't really blame him. It was a measure of how much he cared that he was there to begin with, and I didn't want to lose sight of that.

I'd make it up to him. I'd enjoy making it up to him. If we lived through this night, Joe had a lot of hot monkey love to look forward to.

Mud squelched beneath my toes (I wasn't going to ruin my leather ankle boots, either), so I reached down and scooped up a couple of handfuls. With a silent grimace, I smeared some on my legs and arms. My suspicions about Joe's satisfaction were confirmed when he did the same to my face without asking.

He looked at me critically. "Too pink," he whispered, and glopped some into my hair.

I cringed, making a moue of my lips, and he promptly smeared those, too.

I got him back, though, planting a big, muddy kiss on his nose before he jerked out of range.

"You be careful," he whispered fiercely. "Wait until I draw him out, and then I'll be just a few feet away, behind the vine-covered fence."

Nodding, I put all joking aside and got ready to get down to business.

Together, we skirted the parking lot, keeping low and weaving between the parked cars just in case Randy happened to look out. Then we were on the office side of the building, between it and the pond. Michelle's restless shade was nowhere to be seen, but I knew she was still there somewhere.

I was counting on it.

The night was quiet—just the chirrup of frogs and the faint whine of a mosquito as it buzzed past my ear. There was no traffic on the road—the nonexistent Hogansville sidewalks were already rolled up for the evening in favor of primetime TV. The grass was cool beneath my feet, and I hoped fervently there was no broken glass or sandspurs to worry about.

Then I was in position, crouching behind the bushes closest to the pond.

Joe's arm was around my shoulders, his face close to mine, so I couldn't miss the heavy sigh of resignation he gave. "You are a lot of trouble, woman," he murmured, directly into my ear. "If we make it out of this alive, I'm going to turn you over my knee."

I leaned against him for a moment, letting him take my weight. "Promises, promises."

He kissed my wet, muddy hair, giving me a final squeeze. "Stay put until I'm in position," he reminded me sternly, then he was gone, heading back toward the parking lot.

I lost sight of him for a few seconds, but when he came back I saw he was carrying something in each hand—a couple of rocks. He looked in my direction to make sure I was keeping low, then hefted the one in his right hand. I thought he was gonna throw it, but he didn't—he walked over to Randy's pickup truck and smashed one of the headlights, then did the same to the other one. The tinkle of breaking glass was loud, but not nearly as loud as the smashed sound the front window of the shop made when Joe turned and heaved the rock through it with all his strength. He started running the instant it hit, lobbing the second rock for good measure just before he ducked behind a saggy section of vine-covered fence.

"What the fuck?" Randy's bellow of rage, coming from somewhere inside the body shop, made me cringe. For an instant, I wondered if I could go through with the plan. I looked toward Joe, and there, standing in the grass right between us, was Michelle. She was wet and shivering, staring toward the garage with a fixed expression that told me something: even in death, she was afraid of the man who'd killed her.

So I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If this poor girl could face down the monster, so could I. If he got away with what he'd done to Michelle, he'd do it again to some other girl, I had no doubt.

And then there he was, bursting through the front door with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.

Oh, shit. Why hadn't I thought of this? He was a redneck who lived in the back of a garage in rural Georgia —of course he'd have a sawed-off shotgun.

"Where are you, you fuckin' rat bastard?" he shouted, scanning the parking lot with his furious gaze. He cocked the shotgun, the cha-chick noise it made sounding like certain death. "I'm gonna blow your fuckin' head off!"

I looked at Joe—he was motioning with his hand and mouthing the words, "Stay down."

Like he needed to tell me that.

"Don't worry about the shotgun," Michelle said calmly. "That thing is old, and he didn't take care of it. His first shot will blow it to pieces—I dropped an extra shell down the barrel."

I was dying to know how she'd managed that when she hadn't even been able to take a piece of toilet paper from my hand earlier in the day, but now was hardly the time to ask.

"Anger gives me strength," she said, as though reading my mind. "I didn't know it earlier. I went to his room while you were getting ready, and when I saw him passed out on the bed where he—" she paused, obviously reluctant to finish that particular sentence. "I wanted to kill him." She looked at her hands. "I couldn't pick up the gun, but I saw the loose shotgun shells laying there on the table. I had to concentrate really hard, but I managed to pick one up and drop it down the barrel." She looked at me, and her face was hard. "My granddaddy taught me about guns. That one is a rusty piece of crap."

All I could do was stare at her, dumbfounded. And hugely relieved.

"I couldn't let him hurt you," she said.

"Come on out, you motherfucker! I know you're here!" Randy pointed the shotgun toward the sky and fired. There was a deafening explosion, then Randy screamed and fell backward, clawing at his face. The shotgun fell to the ground. The stream of obscenities that poured from his lips would've made the devil himself blush.

I couldn't help but smile with grim satisfaction, and when I looked at Joe, he was doing the same.

Randy's foul language slowed down some, and I watched as he tentatively lowered his hands, staring at the blood on them, then touching the skin of his cheek gingerly.

"Shrapnel from the barrel," Michelle said. "I hope it hurts like hell." Then, to my surprise, she walked toward Randy.

He, of course, couldn't see her, and he was so focused on the injuries to his face that I doubt he would've noticed if he could.

When she got closer, she kicked out at the shotgun. To my surprise, and to Randy's, the gun actually moved several feet away.

Randy eyed it warily, keeping a hand to his cheek. To him, it would've appeared to move all by itself. He moved toward it, reaching out slowly to pick it up.

Michelle kicked it again, sending the shotgun skittering across the dirt parking lot, and Randy jerked his hand away.

He stood up straight, scanning the parking lot nervously.

Michelle walked behind him, entering the open door of the garage. Within seconds, it slammed shut, causing Randy to flinch. He swiveled, reaching for the door handle. The click it made as Michelle locked it from the inside was loud in the stillness.

Unless Randy wanted to climb through the broken front window, he was locked out, and he knew it. What he obviously didn't know was how he'd been locked out. He scrubbed a bloody palm over his buzz-cut hair, clearly unnerved.

Now it was my turn.

From my hiding place behind the bushes, I let out a breathy sigh, as though I'd just run a marathon and was exhausted.

"Who's there?" Randy pivoted in my direction so fast it startled me.

Steeling my nerves, I let out another sigh, adding a slight moan on the end for good measure.

"Goddammit, I said who's there?" he roared, taking a few steps toward the pond.

Instead of answering, I dropped to my hands and knees, breathing hard, and began to crawl backward toward the pond.

I was afraid to look at Joe. We hadn't discussed the particulars of what I'd do to convince Randy that I was the spirit of Michelle, but my instincts told me that the more freaked out Randy was, the better.

What would freak out a guy who'd drowned somebody more than seeing that somebody come crawling out of the water? I prayed that between the freak-out, the darkness and the mud on my face, I'd look enough like Michelle to fool him.

Not that I was going to get all the way into that nasty black pond, of course—that would be too gross—but being all wet and muddy and having my feet in the water would give the illusion that I was dragging myself onto the bank.

And it worked.

Randy took a few more steps toward the pond, and then the bushes were no longer in his line of sight.

I was.

He staggered, visibly shocked. I wasn't sure which one of us looked scarier—him with his blood-streaked face, or me with my mud-covered one. I borrowed a page from all the bad zombie movies I'd ever seen, and twisted my lips into a sneer, glaring at him beneath my lashes. Saying nothing, I let my eyes do the talking as I started crawling slowly toward him, digging my nails into the muddy grass surrounding the pond.

Chapter 6

"Wha…wha…" Randy was momentarily speechless. His fear did my heart good, and almost made up for the scrapes I was gonna have on my knees.

"Randy," I whispered hoarsely, giving my voice a coarse, guttural quality that strained my vocal cords. I drew out his name as I kept crawling, very slowly. "Raaaannnndddyyy…did you miss me, lover?"

"You're not real." Randy started backing up, away from me.

"He raped me," Michelle said. I hadn't seen her reappear since she'd slammed and locked the door, but my eyes had been trained on Randy. "He had me follow him here to the garage, saying he'd patch my tire, but when I got out of the car he dragged me in the back and threw me down on the bed. I screamed and cried, but there was nobody here to hear me."

"That was so sweet of you to offer to fix my tire," I rasped to Randy, not having to fake the hatred I was feeling. I didn't want to come any closer to him, so I slowly stood up, never taking my eyes from his. Joe's formerly white t-shirt clung to me, hanging to my knees, heavy with mud and water. "Did you like the way I screamed when you raped me?" I bared my teeth in a ghoulish grin. "Was it good for you?"

Randy was paler than any ghost. He shook his head, wordlessly, eyes as big as saucers.

"When he was done he got off me, and told me to get dressed," Michelle's voice was shaking. "I thought he was going to let me go—I was so stupid!" A sob broke from her throat.

I didn't dare look at her, but every word she said left its mark on my heart.

Poor girl. Poor Michelle.

"I'm never going to leave you, you know," I rasped maliciously to Randy, wishing I had a shotgun of my own. "Real men like you are so hard to come by."

"I turned toward the door, and he hit me in the back of the head." Michelle hadn't finished her story. "Everything went black. I dreamed about being back in my car and watching it fill with water—I thought it was just a nightmare, a horrible nightmare, until that day at the bridal shop."

Oh, how I hated being the one who'd woken Michelle from her nightmare. Sometimes the spirits I met knew full well they were dead, sometimes they didn't; it was definitely easier if they knew, but either way, it was never any fun for me.

But I had more bad news to deliver, and this time I didn't mind it so much.

"You're the man of my dreams, Randy," I lied, holding out my muddy arms. "Now we can be together forever."

A wet stain appeared on Randy's jeans, just below his giant belt buckle. I'd never known how satisfying making someone pee his pants could be. I didn't have much time to enjoy it, though, because Randy turned and ran for the parking lot.

"Raannndddy," I rasped loudly, taking a few steps in his direction. "Don't leave me here, Randy!" I looked frantically at Joe, where he crouched behind the section of tumbledown fence. My vague plan had been to get Randy to confess his crime, but if he took off, this whole muddy episode would have been for nothing.

Joe stood up, but it was too late—Randy's pickup rumbled to life, and he tore out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell, leaving nothing but a spray of dirt and a plume of reddish dust in his wake.

"What do we do now?" I asked Joe plaintively.

Joe shook his head, walking toward me along the wet, muddy bank of the pond. "I don't think he'll get very far on these dark back roads without headlights," he said.

And sure enough, there was a squeal of tires followed by a huge thud, then the tinkle of broken glass.

"Holy shit," I breathed. "I thought I played rough."

There was a hard light in Joe's eyes—one I'd never seen before. "The bastard put his hands on you," he said flatly. "And he murdered that poor girl. He's lucky I didn't kill him."

"You may have done exactly that." I was shocked; my gentle, playful lover had a dark side all his own.

Joe shrugged, pulling out his cellphone. "He deserved it," he said. "I hope he burns in hell."

Unfortunately, hell was going to have to wait. We could hear Randy's shouts and groans long before we made it to the pickup, which hadn't gone very far.

Joe called an ambulance on his cellphone, telling the police dispatcher there'd been an accident in front of the One-Stop Body Shop, then very reluctantly stopped to get his emergency medical kit out of the trunk of his car.

Then we went toward the truck, which, from all appearances, had kissed a tree pretty hard. Branches from the tree covered the crumpled hood and rested on the roof. The one front tire I could see looked pretty mangled—that truck wasn't going anywhere unless it was on the flatbed of a wrecker.

"Help!" Randy called, from inside the cab. His voice was weak, thready. "Somebody help me."

Joe took his time, putting his medical kit on the ground and opening it without saying a word. He pulled out a pair of surgical gloves and put them on, a sour expression on his face.

I hung back a little, not wanting Randy to see me. I was still wet and mud-covered, though I'd slipped my half-boots back on when we'd reached Joe's car.

"Is somebody there?" Randy asked weakly. "Anybody out there?"

I was tempted to stick my head in the broken window and give him another good scare, but I restrained myself. For the time being, I'd let Joe handle it.

"This is Dr. Joe Bascombe from Columbia Hospital in Atlanta ," Joe said, in a clipped tone. "An ambulance is on the way."

"Oh, thank Gawd," Randy moaned. "I think both my legs are broken."

"I sincerely hope so," Joe murmured. Then he went to the driver's side door and peered in the window, which was shattered. "Are you injured anywhere else?"

"My chest hurts," Randy moaned. "I think I hit it on the steering wheel."

Joe frowned. "Are you having any trouble breathing?"

"No. But it hurts like a motherfucker. Can you get me out of here?" he whined. It was obvious that Randy either couldn't see Joe very well in the dark, or just didn't recognize him as the man he'd been brawling with in the parking lot of the Long Branch Saloon.

"Unless you're bleeding heavily or having trouble breathing, it's best not to move around too much. You may have spinal or internal injuries and I don't have the equipment here to handle the level of care required. The ambulance will be here soon."

Another groan was Joe's answer.

"I'm going to open the door and check your vitals. Try and stay still."

I watched while Joe reached in and did something to Randy; I couldn't see the murdering asshole from my angle, and that was fine with me.

"Your pupils look good. How's your head?"

"It hurts, man…cain't you give me something for the pain?"

Joe shook his head. "Nothing until the paramedics get here." His expression was pure doctor, dispassionate and intent. "Pulse is steady, that's good. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two," Randy groaned. "My legs are killin' me."

It was like Randy had used the magic word. Joe stepped back, then looked at me. There was a gleam in his eyes that warned me he was up to something. "Yeah, I'll bet they are. Can't move, can you?"

"Hell, no. Where the fuck is that ambulance?"

Joe didn't answer. Instead, he raised his eyebrows at me in an unspoken question, and like a flash, I knew what he was up to.

My nod and my smile gave him the answer he needed. With the flick of a finger, he motioned me to stand behind him, then turned back to Randy.

I got into position, staying back while Joe distracted Randy with more doctor talk.

"That's a nasty cut on your cheek. Might need some stitches. I've got some bandages right here in my first aid kit." Joe moved away, leaving me with an unobstructed view of Randy, and him with a clear shot of me, framed in the open door of the truck.

"AAAAAHHHH," Randy shrieked, jerking backward on the front seat. He didn't get very far, though, his legs like two dead weights dragging him down. His face was pale and blood-streaked, and a bruise was beginning to darken his chin.

I gave him my best ghoulish grin, delighted to be able to terrify the murdering bastard without having to worry about him coming after me.

"Get her away from me," he hollered, sounding like a little girl frightened by a spider. "Get her away."

Joe stepped in front of me, his expression unconcerned. "Calm down, big fella. Get who away from you?"

Randy raised a shaking finger and pointed. "Her! She's right behind you! Get her away!"

Joe turned and looked, but didn't acknowledge me in any way. "I don't see anything. There's nobody here but you and me."

"I'm tellin' you, man, she's right behind you!" Randy's eyes were popping out of his head with fright.

I raised my hand and gave him a little wave, smiling all the while. "He can't see me, Randy," I rasped, "or hear me. Only you can see me. And you're going to see me every day for the rest of your life, unless you tell the nice man where to find my body." I moued him a kiss.

To my surprise, Randy's eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell over in a dead faint.

"Coward," Joe muttered. "Not so brave now, are you, Cornpone?"

I heard a girl's laughter, and it wasn't mine. Michelle was still with us, and given the circumstances, I was glad she was enjoying the show.

Joe sighed, and went back to his medical kit.

"Is he okay? When I said I wanted to scare him to death, I didn't mean literally." I couldn't help but be a little nervous—unlike Randy, I was no murderer. I didn't want anybody's death on my conscience.

"He's fine," Joe said. "His pulse is good, he's alert and talking, no dilation of the pupils. Unfortunately, I see this all the time in the E.R. When a person is drunk, like Jethro here, their reactions are slower, so the body doesn't have time to tense up before impact, which often results in fewer injuries." Joe shook his head, disgusted. "I'm willing to bet this jerk's got nothing wrong with him but a couple of bruised ribs, maybe a broken leg. But I think he needs a little more convincing to do the right thing." He ripped open a packet of something—ammonia, I guess—and held it under Randy's nose.

Randy's face twitched, eyes fluttering. When he opened them, his expression was dazed. "Wha…what happened?"

"You passed out, buddy," Joe said, faking a doctorly concern. "And right before that you were hallucinating. Must be a head injury—if that ambulance doesn't get here soon I can't be held responsible for what happens to you."

"What do you mean?" Randy's face showed fear of a different kind than I'd inspired earlier.

"Subdural hematoma," Joe intoned. "Bleeding on the brain. It could be very serious."

"What?" Randy's voice cracked on the word. "Am I gonna die?"

Joe hesitated, and I stepped up, coming where Randy could see me over Joe's shoulder.

"Oh, I hope so, lover boy," I said, smirking. "Then we can really be together forever."

Randy gasped, eyes glued to me. He seemed, for the moment, speechless.

"I'm a doctor, not a priest," Joe said, as if I hadn't spoken. "But if you have anything you'd like to get off your conscience, now might be the time to do it."

Randy's Adam's apple worked as he swallowed. His eyes moved back and forth, from Joe to me.

"Tell him," I hissed, deciding to get tough. "Tell him what you did to me, and how you put my body in the car and drove it into the pond." I was improvising as to the details, but I knew it had to be something like that. "Tell him where I am so my soul can be at peace." Giving Randy my fiercest glare, I threatened, "Do it, or you'll never have a peaceful night again as long as you live."

It was my sincere hope he'd never have one anyway, but I had only one night—this night—to convince him of it.

"You're not looking so good, buddy," Joe said to Randy, completely ignoring me. "Stay with me, now."

"Everywhere you look, you'll see my face," I rasped. "Every time you close your eyes, you'll hear my voice." I raised my hands, curling my fingers into claws for good measure. "Every time you touch a woman, you'll feel my cold, dead flesh instead of hers. Your dick will…"

That did it. I didn't even get to finish my sentence before Randy blurted, "I killed somebody. I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't!"

I glared at him, knowing a lie when I heard it, but he couldn't look at me anymore.

He grabbed at Joe, babbling a confession. "It was an accident—I panicked and tried to hide the body. I put her in the front seat of her car and drove it into the pond." He was frantic now, beginning to blubber, crocodile tears mixing with the blood on his cheeks.

"Are you telling me you killed someone? A woman?" Joe's voice was very calm. The wail of sirens came from somewhere far away.

"Michelle. Her name was Michelle." His gaze flicked to me but didn't linger. He stared at Joe, holding tight to one of Joe's wrists.

Joe drew back, pulling his arm from Randy's grasp.

"You gotta help me, man," Randy pleaded.

"You need a lot more help than I can give you, man." Joe's tone was grim, and so was the look he gave me.

The wail of sirens was a lot closer now, strobe-like red and blue lights flashing through the trees.

Randy saw them, too. "Thank Gawd," he moaned in relief, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the seat.

Joe jerked his head toward the trees, and I took the hint, ducking low and threading my way into the bushes surrounding the truck.

I was expecting an ambulance, but it was a sheriff 's cruiser that reached the scene first. Only one deputy, and a pretty hefty one at that. His gut led the way as he got out of the car, settling his hat over a nearly bald head as he emerged.

"You the guy called nine-one-one?" The deputy took Joe's measure pretty quickly, eyes flicking over the open medical kit on the ground and the stethoscope Joe wore around his neck as he walked toward the truck.

Joe nodded an affirmative. "I'm Dr. Joe Bascombe from Columbia Hospital in Atlanta —I came upon the scene and was able to offer medical assistance."

"Looks like Randy Catlett's truck—he in there?"

Joe nodded again. "He's in there. He's banged up, but he'll survive."

The deputy peered in at Randy, while more sirens sounded in the distance. "What kind of trouble you got yourself into now, Randy? Didn't that DUI you got last month slow you down none?"

In a town the size of Hogansville, it made sense that Randy and the deputy knew each other.

"It weren't my fault, Dwayne." Randy's tone was whiny now. "My headlights weren't workin'. Get me outta here, would ya?"

Deputy Dwayne turned away from Randy, muttering under his breath. "Stupid shit. Only a matter of time before something like this happened."

The ambulance was in sight now, sirens wailing noisily as they came up the road. The deputy flagged them over with a raised arm, as though they couldn't see the truck wrapped around the tree or his cruiser sitting there, lights flashing.

"It gets worse, Deputy," Joe said. "This man just confessed to me that he murdered someone. A woman."

That stopped Deputy Dwayne in his tracks. "That so?" he asked, shooting Randy a glance. I couldn't help but notice the skeptical tone in his voice. "We don't get many murders around these parts."

The ambulance rolled to a stop and turned off the siren, leaving blessed silence in its wake.

"Well, you've got one now," Joe answered the deputy firmly. "Just before you got here he confessed to murdering a woman named Michelle."

From my hiding place in the bushes, I watched as Randy's eyes got big. Now that help had arrived, he was obviously having second thoughts about his confession.

"I—I don't know what he's talking about, Dwayne," he shouted, still trapped in the truck. "What kind of crazy talk is that?"

Shit. What was I supposed to do now? I couldn't step out from the bushes and terrorize Randy in front of the deputy and the paramedics, who were already out of the ambulance and on the way over.

Joe's face reflected my thoughts. One quick glance in my direction before he looked away, but I knew he was warning me to stay put.

"I'm telling you the truth, Officer. This man told me he murdered a woman and dumped her body in a pond. I'm willing to swear to it in a court of law."

Deputy Dwayne didn't answer. His jaw worked, but I was willing to bet it wasn't gum he was chewing on. He confirmed it when he leaned to one side and spit. No self-respecting Georgia lawman would be caught without his chewing tobacco.

The paramedics had reached the truck, an older man with a crewcut and younger guy with a mullet. The older guy eyed Joe and his stethoscope, and Joe spoke to him automatically, though he kept his gaze trained on the deputy. "Broken or bruised ribs, possible fracture of the right tibia. No sign of chest compression, concussion, or spinal injuries."

"You mean I ain't gonna die?" Randy's face showed his relief. He even ventured a weak half smile, while my heart sank.

Surely he wasn't going to get away with this…surely this whole muddy, messy, dramatic evening hadn't been for nothing…

A blast of music startled me, making me jump. It startled everyone else, too, and masked the rustling I'd made in the bushes. It was the radio in Randy's truck.

Music and voices blurred into a solid stream of noise, as though the radio was scanning through stations, very fast. Everyone stood frozen, listening, until the scanning stopped.

Clear as a bell, loud in the stillness, came a familiar voice, singing a familiar tune that raised the hair on my arms.

"Every breath you take, every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take, I'll be watching you."

Sting, singing "Every Breath You Take."

Randy looked like a deer in the headlights, staring at the radio as if he expected it to bite him.

"Every single day, every word you say, every game you play, every night you stay, I'll be watching you."

Michelle was still here. I knew it, and Randy knew it, and the knowledge proved too much for him.

"All right, all right!" he shrieked. "I did it! I killed her!"

The older paramedic drew back, looking first at Randy, then at Deputy Dwayne.

"You got somethin' you need to get off your chest, boy?" Dwayne asked Randy, shooting Joe a glance before he moved toward the truck.

"Michelle," Randy babbled, still staring at the radio. "Her name's Michelle. I don't even know her last name—she's a friend of Debbie Hathaway's. She's in the pond back at the body shop."

I breathed a silent sigh of relief, and looked at Joe. He flicked his eyes toward where he'd left his car, and I got the message; time for all good ghouls to hit the road.

I wanted to celebrate, to throw my arms around him and kiss him to thank him for helping me, but now was not the time. Instead, I ducked down and scrambled away as quietly as I could. Once I was far enough away, I stood up and took off at a run toward the One-Stop Body Shop.

Joe could handle it from here, I had no doubt.

But the evening wasn't over yet. I was at the hose, quickly wiping the mud from my face and arms with Joe's newly rinsed t-shirt when Michelle showed herself one final time.

Or tried to show herself, anyway. Her form was hazy, indistinct, and I couldn't help but be a little relieved; she'd been looking pretty bad since she knew she'd been murdered, and I didn't want to see any more. I'd had enough of a creep show for one evening.

"Something's happening to me," Michelle said. Even her voice sounded fuzzy. "I feel like I have to be somewhere, but I'm not sure where it is."

I smiled, knowing the place Michelle was being drawn to was a good place. "It's okay, Michelle." I kept my voice gentle. "It's time for you to go now. Just close your eyes and let go, and all of this will seem like a bad dream. Only this time, when you wake up, it will be to a better place."

It would be in the Light, which was a very good place, indeed. I wasn't sure I had the words to describe it, but I didn't really need to. Michelle would find out soon enough. I couldn't believe that the innocent victim of such a horrible crime would go anywhere else.

"Nice trick with the radio, by the way," I added.

"Thanks."

I could hear the smile in her voice, and it made me happy.

"Could you do me one final favor?"

Repressing a tired sigh, I answered, "Sure."

"I don't want Debbie thinking that I died mad at her," Michelle said. "I know her…if we leave things on a sour note, she'll blame herself for what happened to me. If I told you what to say, would you say it?"

Great—how was I supposed to do that? Walk up to Debbie at her wedding and tell her I had a message from the "other side"? Par for the course, I suppose. How ironic that in a family of rednecks, I'd managed to become the one everybody considered strange.

Hell, I'd figure something out.

With a shrug, I said, "What do you want me to tell her?"

Chapter 7

"Calm down, Debbie," Darlene said. "Just because that idiot Randy had to get himself busted up and in the hospital right before the wedding doesn't mean the wedding's ruined." She shot me a look over Debbie's head as she was adjusting her sister's veil.

Darlene was the only one who knew the truth about why Randy wasn't here. I'd called her yesterday and asked her to meet me for coffee—then I'd told her what happened in the parking lot of the Long Branch Saloon when Randy'd attacked me. I'd fudged about why Joe and I had followed Randy to the One-Stop Body Shop, claiming it was because he was so drunk we were worried about him causing an accident, but I'd told the truth about how Randy, afraid he was about to die, had confessed to murdering Michelle. I'd appealed to Darlene's sisterly instincts, getting her to agree that Debbie didn't need to know the dirty details about Michelle until after she and Dale got back from their honeymoon.

Truth be told, I'd done it more for Michelle's sake than Debbie's—it had been Michelle's last wish to not ruin her best friend's wedding, and I'd done my best to honor that.

Darlene had surprised me; she'd shed a few genuine tears for Michelle before she'd blistered my ears with some well-deserved names for Randy, a few of which I'd never heard before. Then she'd picked up the phone and taken things one step further—her defensive instincts had kicked into high gear, and she wasn't about to let her baby sister's wedding be ruined. It turned out that she used to date the Hogansville Chief of Police, and she'd called in a favor by asking him to keep news of Randy's arrest under wraps until after the wedding. Hard to do in a small town like Hogansville, but the now-married chief didn't stand a chance against a determined Darlene. As far as Debbie and everyone else knew, Randy was in the hospital after wrapping his truck around a tree, period. Anybody who spilled the beans about Michelle's murder before the wedding was going to have a pissed-off red-haired spitfire on their hands.

Darlene was still breathing fire a day later in the dressing room in the back of the church, though she'd used up most of it on the florist, who'd showed up late to decorate. To Debbie, however, she'd been nothing but sweet, helping her dress and fussing over her like a mother hen.

"But now the procession is ruined," Debbie fretted. "There's four bridesmaids and only three groomsmen; even if Nicki walks down by herself, the ceremony will end up lopsided, and so will the pictures afterward."

I seized my chance. "I don't mind not being in the wedding, Debbie. If I dropped out, the wedding party would be even again." I waved a hand toward the pink sundress and sandals I was wearing. "I'm not even dressed yet, so it's no big deal." I'd put off wearing the ugly yellow dress until the last possible second, and it looked like it might pay off.

Darlene shot me a sardonic, knowing glance, but kept her mouth shut.

Unfortunately, Aunt Nadine, who'd been fussing over the bridal bouquets, was not about to let me off the hook. "Of course you're going to be in the wedding, Nicki. You're family. I only wish my sister Emily had lived to see this day." Aunt Nadine's lip quivered, and I knew I was sunk. "All five of our girls together, sharing this joyous occasion."

Crap.

Easy for Aunt Nadine to talk; she looked pretty in rose-colored silk, while I had to wear one of the most hideous bridesmaid dresses I'd ever seen. "You'd better get moving, Nicki; the wedding starts in ten minutes."

The atmosphere in the tiny dressing room at the back of the church was hectic—it was crammed to the gills with women in various stage of undress. Aunt Nadine bent to help my niece Brittany, who made a cute flower girl, while Donna and Diane bickered over whose hat belonged to who.

"Everything will be fine, Debbie," Darlene said, sliding home the final hairpin that held her sister's veil in place. The yellow bridesmaid dress I hated looked surprisingly good on her, which tipped me off as to who'd picked it out. The yellow hat brought out the auburn in her red hair. "Everything's going to be fine."

"Can somebody zip me?" whined cousin Donna. "I don't think Bebe got my measurements right."

"If you'd put the Twinkies down once in a while she wouldn't have had to keep letting it out," Diane snipped, turning her sister around in order to oblige.

"At least I ain't a bean pole," Donna snipped back. "Men like a woman with a little meat on their bones."

"Would you two just stop it?" The bride's nerves were obviously frayed, and her sisters' squabbling wasn't helping. "You're ruining my big moment!"

"Huh," Diane muttered. "Only thing big around here is Donna's butt."

"I heard that," Donna shrilled. "Mama, did you hear what she said to me?"

"Now girls," Aunt Nadine began, but I tuned them out, resigned to my fate. With a sigh, I grabbed the hanger that held my dress and went down the hall to the ladies' room to get dressed.

Forget the bride. Right now I was the one who needed a moment.

The wedding went off without a hitch, if you ignored little Brittany bursting into tears halfway down the aisle and throwing her basket of flower petals on the carpet. Darlene took it in stride, catching her daughter by the hand and dragging her along to one of the front pews to be snagged by an elderly woman who shushed her with hugs and kisses. By the time I started down the aisle, bringing up the rear behind my three cousins, Brittany 's tantrum had subsided to sniffles, barely heard above the processional music.

The church was packed. It looked like the whole town had turned out for Debbie's wedding, and I was glad. It was her big day, pineapple dresses, flowered hats and all.

There was Joe, smiling at me from a pew, tall and handsome in a pinstriped suit and the vintage Hermes tie I'd given him for the occasion. I tried not to look at Evan, knowing he'd make me laugh, but couldn't help but notice how fabulous he looked in a untucked fitted buttondown and gray silk blazer. His boyfriend Butch stood next to him, bald head gleaming, muscular shoulders straining the fabric of his coat, a single daisy pinned to his lapel.

Then I was at the front of the church, taking my place next to Diane. Silence for a moment, broken only by a final sniffle from Brittany , and the wedding march began. Despite my desire to be somewhere else, wearing something else (anything else), I felt my heart swell along with the music.

Nicholette Nadine Styx, romantic sucker extraordinaire.

A shuffle of feet as everyone rose, and all heads turned toward the rear of the church. All heads except Joe's, that is. He was looking at me. I gave him a wink, and was rewarded by the way his smile deepened, warming me to my toes. I might look like a pineapple piñata in a borrowed dress, but Joe didn't seem to mind.

Debbie was glowing, trembling on the arm of my Uncle John as he walked her down the aisle. I shot a glance at Dale where he stood at the altar, a band of white showing on his forehead where his hat usually rode. The pants of his rented tuxedo were hemmed too short, and the sleeves too long, but he was beaming as he watched Debbie come toward him.

The church organ was only slightly off-key. I risked a glance at Evan, not surprised to find him clutching at Butch's arm, a bit dewey-eyed as he watched the bride. I was quite familiar with his fairytale visions of me in white and him in Armani—we'd talked about our ideal weddings since we were kids in junior high school.

Evan caught me looking at him, but he just arched a blond eyebrow, then turned his gaze back to the altar.

A lump rose in my throat as Uncle John said the words that gave Debbie away, placing her hand in Dale's.

My dad would never get a chance to do that. He and my mom had died together on that wet stretch of road seven years earlier. It was my only comfort, knowing they'd died as they'd lived, together.

I missed them so much.

And then it was time for the vows, which I only half-listened to. My attention was distracted by a shaft of light that came through the stained glass window over the altar. Dust motes sparkled, twisting and spinning, and then there she was—though no one could see her but me.

Michelle, dry and smiling, come to watch her best friend get married.

Her form was vague, indistinct, wavering like a mirage in the beam of light that carried her. I knew what it must cost her to fight the pull of the Light, to anchor herself here for however long it took to see Debbie wed.

But she did, and when it was over, when the "I do's" had both been said, she turned to me with a smile and mouthed, "Thank you."

To my eyes, Michelle looked like she did that day in the bridal shop, before she knew she was dead—young and carefree and smiling. I gave her a little nod, then jerked my chin toward the stained glass window, trying hard not to cry.

Time to get going, ghoulfriend.

Then she was gone, and the recessional march was playing, and we all stood up to watch Debbie and her redneck prince leave the church in triumph.

The reception was held right there at the church, in a big meeting room right off the kitchen. Dale and Debbie danced their first dance to "Can You Feel The Love Tonight," and the funny thing was, I did. The way they looked at each other was really sweet, and I even dared hope that they'd be happy together.

Maybe their particular litter of little rednecks wouldn't be so bad.

My Aunt Nadine and Uncle John were both beaming; flower girl Brittany had forgotten her tantrum and was being chased around the tables by her sister Amber; Donna and Diane squabbled amiably over how much rum was needed to thoroughly spike the punch.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends, Nicki?" Darlene had stopped by our table with a plateful of food from the buffet. She'd already met Joe—I'd introduced him after he'd waited patiently in the front pew during our interminable post-wedding photo session. Now she was eyeing both Evan and Butch with interest.

"Yes, this is my partner, Evan Owenby," I said, patting Evan fondly on the arm. "And this is his partner, Butch." I leaned in toward Darlene, remembering what she'd said to me at the shower, and stage-whispered, "That's what we're supposed to be calling it these days."

To her credit, Darlene just cut her eyes at me and laughed, extending a hand to Evan and Butch in turn. "I'm Darlene," she said, "Nicki's favorite cousin."

"Have a seat, Darlene." Joe rose, pulling out a chair for my cousin like the gentleman he usually was. "Join us."

And to my surprise, she did. We were laughing and chatting with surprising ease, when Debbie came over to our table, flushed and happy.

"I have got to sit down," she said, fanning herself with a hand. "I need to catch my breath."

Evan leapt up before Joe did and pulled out a chair for her. "You sit right next to me," he said gallantly, "and tell me all the details about your bee-yoo-tiful wedding. Love the dress. Who did the catering?"

I saw Butch's arm move toward Evan, and knew they were holding hands beneath the table. Both men listened, spellbound, as Debbie held court, while Joe and I exchanged smiles.

Barely a minute passed before my Aunt Nadine came bustling over. "Don't get too comfortable, sweetie. It's almost time to cut the cake," she said to Debbie. Glancing around, she added distractedly, "I can't believe Michelle isn't here. Even if you two had a little spat, surely she could've made it to the reception."

"It's okay, Mom," Debbie said cheerfully. "She's with us in spirit."

Darlene froze, fork halfway to her mouth, but I bit back another smile, knowing what was coming.

"I got a text message from her last night," Debbie went on. "She was really sorry for acting like such a bi—" Debbie caught herself, shooting her mother a guilty glance. Apparently getting married didn't change the normal mother/daughter dynamic. "Like such a twit. She apologized, and we're cool, but she was too embarrassed to face everybody after bailing on me at the last minute."

Darlene couldn't help herself. She lowered her fork and asked, "Are…are you sure it was Michelle?"

"Of course it was her; my cellphone has caller ID. Besides, who else would it be, silly?" Debbie grinned at her sister. "Michelle was probably worried that somebody might make a scene."

Darlene gasped in outrage, ready to spit fire, but she just happened to catch my eye, and subsided. Instead, she took a big bite of potato salad, chewing determinedly, a fixed look on her face.

"Well," Aunt Nadine said, sounding doubtful, "I'm just surprised, that's all. It's not like Michelle to miss something as big as this—she's your best friend."

"It's okay," Debbie said, rising to her feet with a smile on her face. "Michelle and I are good. We'll kiss and make up in person when Dale and I get back from our honeymoon. Now let's go cut the cake."

Darlene waited until Debbie moved away, then swallowed her potato salad hastily. She leaned over to hiss, "How could Debbie have possibly gotten a text message from Michelle last night?"

I shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe she sent it earlier and the message was delayed or something. I imagine the cellphone service here in Hogansville can be pretty spotty."

Darlene eyed me narrowly, sensing bullshit when she heard it, but there was nothing she could do about it. Donna called her name, urging her over to the cake table, and she went, but not without shooting me one final glance over her shoulder.

"Text message, hm?" Joe murmured in my ear. "Aren't you the clever one? How'd you manage that?"

Bebe of Bebe's Bridal had been all too happy to turn over Michelle's cellphone when I'd gone back to the store to pick up my dress. I'd told her Michelle asked me to get it for her (which was true), and that was that.

As to the actual message, I knew it by heart, since I was the one who'd typed it:

SRY 4 BEING SUCH A SHIT, G/F. PLS 4GIVE ME. SRY TO MISS WEDDING, BUT WILL BE W/U IN SPIRIT, I PROMISE. LUV U 4 EVAH! BFF, CHELLE

"Don't you worry about how I managed it," I said to Joe, teasingly. "I have my ways."

"You certainly do," he answered, with a gleam in his eye. "By the way, I've really enjoyed seeing you in that pineapple dress," Joe murmured.

I shot him an incredulous look.

"And I'm going to enjoy it even more when I rip it off," he said, smiling.

Drawing him even closer, my breast against his arm, I eyed him beneath my lashes.

"My hero," I sighed.

About Terri Garey

A Southern girl with an overactive imagination, TERRI GAREY grew up in Florida , always wondering why tropical prints and socks with sandals were considered a fashion statement. She survived the heat by reading in the shade, and watching cool shows like The Twilight Zone and the classic gothic soap opera Dark Shadows. Born too late to be a hippy and too early to be a Goth, Terri did the logical thing and became a computer geek.

Balancing a career with marriage and motherhood convinced her that life was too short to rely entirely on the left side of her brain, and quirky ideas about life among the undead began to replace the dry logic of computers. Deciding imagination was her best weapon in the war against reality, Terri dove even deeper into the world of the unexplained and started writing her own demented tales from the dark side. Her debut novel, Dead Girls Are Easy, was released in September 2007 and will be followed by the sequel, A Match Made in Hell, in July 2008. She still lives in the Sunshine State with her husband and three children and still refuses to wear tropical prints or socks with sandals.

Visit Terri Garey on the web at www.tgarey.com or www.harpercollins.com/TerriGarey.