Lanie's eyes are rimmed in red, and the trail of tears on her cheeks glistens in the moonlight as she stands in front of my body. "It's all my fault." Her voice sounds like it's been run through a blender for a few minutes.

"Come on, Lanie," I say, putting my arms around her. She shivers as I make contact with her skin. "There's no way you did this."

Lanie would not harm me. We've known each other since our freshman year in college and have been peas and carrots ever since. We've endured broken hearts, moves halfway across the country, and a ton of fashion revolutions in our seven-year friendship, and we've never really had a fight, or at least one that we couldn't laugh about five minutes later.

It makes no sense that Lanie would do this, yet she's blaming herself for it. In truth, I can't figure my death out. No one had it out for me that I know of. But there are a lot of people who don't seem to like me, possibly because of my Resting Bitchface Syndrome. Well, that and they think I'm shallow and materialistic. I probably am a little bit of both.

But none of them were too keen on calling for help when I could have used it. Instead they stood around, hovering like vultures so they could obtain the best gossip. Even with said rudeness, I can't imagine there's anyone out there that hates me enough to risk a stint in jail. Would my death be worth it to someone? Probably not.

And I've never been suicidal, not even after Grant ditched me at the end of senior prom after we'd dated for most of high school. If ever there was a really low time in my life, that was it. I'd been expecting a night with clothing on the floor of his Mustang and steamed-up windows. When I was trying to unknot his bowtie, and he grabbed my hands, saying that it was time to go our separate ways, I was devastated. I couldn't even attend school for three days the following week out of embarrassment, anger, and resentment. I might have cried that my life was over, but not once did I consider ending it, not once did I consider taking it myself.

I didn't jump through the window.

Maybe it was an accident? Could I have leapt away from a palmetto bug and broken my neck? Or maybe I tripped? I'm not the most graceful person, but a klutz I am not. Then again, the shoe is wobbly. Was it wobbly before I died? Could this beautiful shoe really have caused my demise?

It bothers me that I can't recall any of the details from the past few hours. My only memory of the entire day is when my shoe first wobbled. I just assume that Lanie's apartment was my destination since she wasn't with me and I'd only be here to see her. But I wonder: Do all ghosts lose their memory of the moments leading up to their death? It seems we should be able to access how we died, but for the life...er...death of me, it isn't coming back to me.

The slam of a car door pulls me away from my discontent.

A striped arm cuts through me and wraps around Lanie. The shirt is white with gray stripes, a Charvet. Instantly, I go from being annoyed by the arm sticking out of my neck, to pissed off that it's Adam who is comforting Lanie. I shift a few steps to the right and try to wipe my scowl away. Why is he here and why the hell was he driving Lanie's car?

"Don't be ridiculous," he says to Lanie so everyone can hear. "You've been with me for the past two hours. She couldn't have been here for that long without someone noticing before now."

Lanie bristles and cries again. He gives her a tight squeeze then smoothes his hair. He's typically well put-together, but it looks like he might have missed a haircut. Regardless, he could have just walked off the set of a GQ model shoot, if he were a model, that is.

He's actually an investor, much of his clientele middle-aged divorcees searching for the right plan for them to maintain their wealth or is that the right man for them to maintain their wealth? Anyway, he's popular with the ladies and I suspect that he has a business on the side with him being the only one becoming rich.

Lanie says Adam is professional in his business, but how professional can he really be if he started dating her right after she invested the money she received from her grandfather's estate with him? My gut says she saw love and he saw dollar signs.

"I know." Lanie wipes away her tears. "It's just that she was so angry when she stormed out of the bar."

Two paramedics exit the ambulance and rush to my corpse, the younger of the two carrying a cardiac monitor. They hook it up to me, and immediately the machine registers a flat line. The younger medic reaches for the defibrillation switch, but the middle-aged medic, the one with "Mohler" on his patch, shakes his head and says to call the coroner. They unfold a blue tarp and place it over my body.

I know that I'm dead, but the paramedic's order is hard to hear, to the point that it jars me.

This is not supposed to be happening to me. I should be out on the town, mingling with every hot guy at Channelside. I shouldn't be growing colder by the minute under a tarp, and I certainly shouldn't be a ghost stuck in this god-awful clothing for the rest of my life...er...existence. The tears roll down my cheeks again.

Lanie lets out another wail, while Adam stares at the tarp and seems to force a frown onto his weasely face.

What can I say? There has never been any love or like between Adam and me. I haven't liked him since the day we were introduced. It wasn't easy to be in the presence of the man I'd just witnessed ogling three different ladies at the bar and programming their numbers into his phone. And when he'd invited me to have a drink with him, I simply declined. He's had no time for me since that rejection and the feeling is very mutual.

And of course my chin had just about hit the floor that same night when Lanie breezed into the bar, sidled up to him and delivered a kiss that made me blush from a table a few feet away. I could clearly see she was smitten by the man and there was no way she would hear me out regarding his philandering. I decided that if I valued our friendship, it would be better not to divulge his antics. He wouldn't stick around for long, and at least I'd be there to help her pick up the pieces.

Except he had stayed with her, and she'd fallen even more in love with him. After six months of dating, Adam gave her a three-carat rock, and they set the wedding for the same date as their first anniversary. And then Margaret came along.

Lanie had been furious, as she'd seen Adam and her walking into Margaret's place arm-in-arm. She grabbed all of Adam's belongings and tossed them against the door to Margaret's apartment. When Margaret opened the door, wearing only a sheet and frustrated that she'd been interrupted, Lanie had rushed in, tossed a leather belt at Adam, smacking him in the jaw, and shook as her hands balled into fists. I had to pull her out of the apartment while she screamed at the two cheats.

"I'm keeping the ring. You can keep whatever disease you're in the process of catching. Good riddance." I still don't know how she managed to say the words without tearing up or her voice cracking.

It wasn't until I'd followed her inside her apartment and closed the door, that she had folded onto her sofa, her tears leaving a streak down the pale blue suede. I did my best to comfort my friend, to tell her that she deserved so much better than Adam, that he was handsome, flashy, and totally wrong for her, that there was someone out there who'd love her and her alone. Eventually I told her about the night she introduced Adam to me, and she agreed she wouldn't have listened at the time; this was something she'd needed to see for herself, no matter how much it hurt.

It took her weeks to work through her issues, but she'd moved on, or at least she'd hinted at a new guy in her life. But maybe the new guy didn't even exist. Maybe she'd gotten back with Adam on the sly. Would Lanie lie to me because she knew I wouldn't approve of her rekindling her relationship with Adam? God knows I would've gone ballistic if she told me they'd gotten back together.

Really, it makes no sense to me. Why would she bother with him when she already has someone ready and willing to love her?

Adam touches Lanie's chin and guides her line of sight away from the tarp. He pulls her into an embrace and whispers into her ear, but his attention is on John, no trace of warmth in his eyes.

"I'm so glad you're here," Lanie says, wiping away the tears from her cheek.

"He's marking his territory, Lanie." I can't believe she thinks he's being supportive. If she could see the way he's eyeing John like he's competition, she certainly would not welcome his affection so easily. John can't help it that he was here confronting Clive while Adam sat comfortably behind the wheel, undoubtedly listening through the unrolled window.

"Where else would I be?" Adam answers. He pecks her on the forehead.

Bible Study with Margaret? Flirting with the woman with the most expensive wardrobe? Taking a long walk off a short bridge? Scratch that one. With my luck, he'd come back as a ghost, too, and then I'd have to call an exorcist.

"Excuse me, Miss, do you know the deceased?" asks a man in crisp, navy blue trousers. His voice is a rich baritone that reminds me of chocolate: smooth, delicious, and totally going to leave me wanting more until it kicks me in the gut. I love chocolate, but I can't eat it without getting sick. Or at least I couldn't while I was alive.

Lanie jumps at the new voice. "She's my best friend, Cheline. Cheline Morgan."

"Cheline Morgan?" the policeman asks, seemingly confused.

I circle around Adam so I can take a look at the cop. If he's the man who will be investigating my demise, I need to make sure he measures up to the task. Nice butt, flat abs from what I can see, and sleeves that are a little tight through the biceps. Without a doubt, he is up to the task. I peer into his eyes.

They're a brilliant blue that I would recognize from anywhere, and without a doubt, the chocolate analogy still stands, except this man's kick to the stomach came in the form of a breakup at prom.

"And you are?" Adam crosses his arms and puts on a machismo expression. Obviously he's an idiot if he's going to act this way in front of a police officer. Does he want to be incarcerated or killed?

"Officer Grant Smith and this is my partner, Officer Ramon Hernandez."

Surely my ex-boyfriend cannot investigate my death. It seems there should be ethics regulations in place that would prohibit that from happening. It's been almost eight years since we've seen or spoken to each other, so maybe he doesn't even recognize me.