For old times' sake, I float through the revolving door to the lobby. I linger next to the fountain and watch as the spurts of water slow down to a trickle and the swirls stop altogether. With the guard absent, the room is eerily silent.

I sit on the rollback couch, unbothered by my inability to sink a couple inches into the cushions. I'm more concerned about my death.

Why can't I remember it?

It doesn't make sense that I jumped or that I drunkenly fell out of the window. My handwriting was too coherent, too neat for either of those explanations. Someone pushed me out the window, and I'd bet my Blahniks that Margaret is my murderer. Why else would she have gone into the apartment, if not to clean up the evidence? And how did she get a key? Lanie wouldn't have given one to her, but Margaret easily could have taken mine.

But did she hate me enough to murder me? She obviously wanted my shoes, but if I were going to kill someone for their shoes, not that I would, I can't imagine tossing the person out a window with the shoes still on her feet. But this is Margaret. Who knows what goes through her mind at any given moment? She definitely doesn't like me, and perhaps that's deserved on my part, but she shouldn't have slept with Adam. She was supposed to be Lanie's friend, too.

Maybe I wasn't the target. The thought terrifies me.

Grant said it himself that Lanie and I resemble each other. We've been asked since we first met if we were sisters. I never really saw the resemblance, but it's there, even if she would clearly be the pretty one. We both have high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. I'm a good two inches shorter and ten pounds heavier than her, and my auburn roots peek through the blonde dye-job, but in the right lighting or if the person were behind us, it would be easy to mistake us for one another, especially when I was wearing heels.

Someone else was in that apartment, and I think he or she probably pushed me when my back was turned, possibly as I looked out the window. I would have scratched, punched, done anything to put up a fight had I seen the danger headed for me.

What if Margaret saw an opportunity to remove Lanie from the picture so she could have Adam all to herself? It's plausible, especially if Lanie and Adam are trying to work things out. And if Lanie was the intended victim, what's to stop Margaret from striking again?

Knowing I won't find my answers here, I rise from the couch and glide to the elevator. The button doesn't light as my finger pokes it. Shoulders hunched, I step through the door, rise through the shaft, pass through the elevator, and then exit it onto the seventh floor.

"Well, what do we have here?" a drawling voice says as I turn to the right. "How are you doing, Cheline?"

Omigosh! Someone can actually see me. Thank god. I think I'd go nuts if the only person who answered me back were myself. 

My attention catches on the suit that I saw earlier and works its way up to his gorgeous turquoise eyes. They seem to sparkle underneath the hall light.  It's my dead boss, alive...er...dead in the...flesh? I had such a crush on him when he was alive.

"Well, my heel is broken, I'm wearing these ungodly clothes, and I died today. How about you, Oliver?" How else is a ghost supposed to respond?

He tilts his head from side to side, like he's trying to figure out what to say. "About the same, plus a few months."

I glare at him. At least he's nicely attired in his suit.

"What?" He seems genuinely bothered by my lack of response. He waves his hand through his wavy, brown hair.

"Well, sorry about the car accident. 275's a bitch." An awkward silence follows. "I went to your funeral."

"Thanks. I was there." Even more awkward. "You looked beautiful."

My breath catches at the thought of him actually noticing me. I was more to him than a coffeemaker and copy machine. Not that he really treated me like that, but he was strictly professional while we worked together. It was downright discouraging at times that one of the last decent guys alive was also happily married.

There's a point when awkward becomes plain weird. I decide to change the subject. "So what brings you here?"

"Hanging out with my friends."

How nice. Ghosts can have friends.

Is it wrong to hope that he would have said he'd come to see me? I guess that's probably a tad creepy and stalkerish. But my guess is ghosts are both creepy and stalkerish, showing up uninvited and at all times of the night, frightening the bejeezus out of whomever they wish. Or at least that's what the actors on the ghost tours like to say.

 I wonder if there is etiquette when it comes to being a ghost. Are we only allowed to come out at night, or on certain days of the year? And why is Oliver a ghost, or me for that matter? I beat myself up on whether I should ask him my questions. After a short silence, I decide to throw caution to the wind. You only die once.

"Why are you a ghost?" Which really translates to: Why am I a ghost? It seems like the best place to begin. I float upwards until my eyes pass through the ceiling. Feeling the heat in my cheeks, or maybe it's a ceiling tile, I descend to the floor and try to act like it was my intention to have my head disappear for a moment.

"You'll get used to the weightlessness eventually." He sits on the floor, stretching his long legs in front of himself. "Why am I a ghost? The short answer is that I'm just not ready to go."

"And the long answer?"

"I want to make sure my wife and kids are okay." He chokes up at the mention of his children.

"Is something wrong with them?"

I'd met his children a few times when Tonya came for lunch with Oliver. His son was a little rambunctious, demanding to be wheeled across the office. His daughter, a couple years older and now in pre-kindergarten, was a little calmer. Both were pretty good kids while cooped up in the office, waiting for Oliver to break away from his phone calls.

"They're fine, seem happy, though they cry for me at bedtime." He wipes his eye. "At first, I stayed around the house. Just wanted to be near them all the time. I hadn't been dead for two days when I realized Tonya was cheating on me. She had researched a divorce lawyer and everything, was planning on leaving me before Thanksgiving."

Wow. They had seemed rock solid. In the two years that I had worked for Oliver, I'd placed dozens of orders for roses, tulips, whatever flower was in season, and all with a sappy message or poem that he had dictated to send to her. Whenever they were together at company events, it seemed that she was the sun and everything he did revolved around her.

"The worst thing, she sighed, almost like she was relieved, after the officer who came to tell her that I'd been in an accident left the house, and she only cries when there's an audience to appreciate her performance."

"I'm really sorry about that. How awful."

"It's been an adjustment. Don't want to see her, so I make a point to visit the kids while they sleep. I sit on their beds and recite their favorite books to them."

The thought of Oliver visiting his kids every night overwhelms me. I'm sure they miss him terribly. And Tonya, gosh.

"Do you think Tonya could have tampered with your car? You guys went to the Columbia that day."

"How do you remember these things?" He smiles for the first time since the conversation took on a serious note.

"How could I not?" Being infatuated with him and all.... "It was the day you died."

"I don't think she tampered with the car. My death was convenient for her, but she's not a murderer."

"I wasn't expecting any of what you told me. It just seems wrong. You were always so devoted to your family."

"Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. You're the first person I've told. It's been an adjustment."

I pause for a bit, debating whether to continue. YODO. "Can I ask a few questions about being a ghost?"

"I suppose the least I could do is answer your questions." He folds his knees almost to his chest.

"Why didn't I recognize my own body?"

Oliver smiles. "I want you to imagine that you're walking down the street. You happen upon a dead body. If you see a corpse on the ground, when you are perfectly healthy, able to move, think, talk, aren't you going to believe the body belongs to someone else? You weren't looking in a mirror, after all."

I scratch my head on that one, trying to reason it, but the answer doesn't come.

"Cheline, ghosts don't realize they're dead when they first awaken, and some never figure it out. It took me a couple hours."

I let out a breath of air and think back to the moments leading up to my realization, to when I first saw what looked like Oliver's suit. "You were among the crowd earlier."

Oliver nods. A trace of pink works its way across his face. "With a friend. Not one of our finer moments, but Margaret is quite wonderful to watch, especially when there's a wardrobe malfunction."

I try not to vomit at the fact he knows Margaret by name and he thinks she's beautiful."

Seeming unbothered by my reaction, he continues,"You'll find ghosting to be mostly dull. That's why so many choose to cross over."

Hmmm. That's food for thought. "Are there any rules? You know, like how in Twilight, the vampires have to be discreet or they'll be killed?" I regret using the example once 'Twilight' exits my mouth, but there's no turning back now.

He gives me this "What the hell are you talking about?" look.

I change the subject again. "Do you know why I'm a ghost?"

"Oh, Senorita, O-leaver is not who you should be asking for advice when it comes to ghosting," a thick, Spanish accent, the same one who was hoping for a wardrobe malfunction from Margaret, says. "You need someone with a little more expertise, refinery if you may."

I look around, but it's only Oliver and me in the hallway. As I squint, an orb comes into view and within seconds, it materializes into a man who probably died during Gasparilla. He's wearing a white, billowing shirt and ratty knickers, and he has a sword tucked into his scabbard. His hair is long.  He reaches for my hand and bends down to kiss it. "Pleased to meet you. Jose Gaspar at your service."

His touch sends shivers up and down my body. He actually feels human to me, firm, unlike the gelatinous blobs that were Adam and Margaret.

"Jose Gaspar? As in the pirate they named Gasparilla after?"

He releases my hand. "The one and only."

"I thought he was a myth."

I'd heard the legends that the naval officer had fallen in love only to be exiled because of the forbidden relationship. He had turned to piracy and kidnapped scores of women during his plundering. Supposedly, he wrapped himself in the ropes of an anchor and threw himself overboard to avoid capture. The legends say he died in 1821. But many people said he was a myth, concocted to create buzz for the festival downtown. 

"Three hours ago, you would have said that ghosts did not exist, yet here we are." He points to me, then to Oliver. "Perhaps the legends have some basis in reality. I believe you were asking why you are a ghost?"

He has my full attention, but I seem to be at a loss for words.