“Shannon.”

Only it wasn’t me who said it. It was David.

“Yes, Shannon,” my mother said. “She’s a redhead, like David. That much sun can be very damaging to redheads. I hope she was wearing sunscreen.”

I half expected David to come up with one of his usual comments—you know, the exact statistical incidents of skin cancer occurring in eighth graders in northern California, or something. His head was filled with all sorts of useless information like that. Instead, he just flicked his mashed potatoes around his plate, until Brad, who’d finished all of his own mashed potatoes, as well as what was left in the bowl, went, “Man, are you going to eat that or play with it? Because if you don’t want it, give it to me.”

“David,” Andy said. “Finish what’s on your plate.”

David picked up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and ate it.

Brad’s gaze immediately flickered over to my plate. But the hopeful look in his eye faded when he saw how clean it was. Not, of course, that I’d felt like eating. At all.

But I had Max, the family dog-slash-garbage disposal, by my side, and I’d grown expert at slipping him what I couldn’t choke down myself.

“May I be excused?” I asked. “I think maybe I did get a little too much sun—”

“It’s Suze’s turn to put the plates in the dishwasher,” Brad declared.

“No, it isn’t.” I couldn’t believe this. Didn’t these people realize I had way more important things to do than worry about household chores? I had to make sure my boyfriend died, like he was supposed to. “I did it last week.”

“Nuh-uh,” Brad said. “You and Jake traded weeks, remember? Because he had to work the dinner shift this week.”

Since this was indisputably true—I’d seen the evidence myself over at Paul’s—I couldn’t argue anymore.

“Fine,” I said, scooting my chair back, nearly running over Max in the process, and standing up. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, Susie,” my mom said with a smile as I took her plate.

My reply wasn’t exactly gracious. I muttered, “Whatever,” and went into the kitchen with everybody’s plates, Max following closely at my heels. Max loves it when I have plate-clearing duty, because I just scrape everything into his bowl, rather than into the trash compactor.

But on that night, Max and I weren’t alone in the kitchen.

Even though I didn’t notice anyone else in there right away, I knew something was up when Max suddenly lifted his head from his bowl and fled, his food only half finished, and his tail between his legs. Only one thing had the power to make Max leave pork uneaten, and that was a visitor from beyond.

He materialized a second later.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said. “How’s it going?”

I didn’t scream or anything. I just poured Lemon Joy into the pot Andy had used to cook the potatoes, then filled it with hot water.

“Nice timing, Dad,” I said. “You just stop by to say hi, or did someone on the ghost grapevine alert you to my extreme mental anguish?”

He smiled. He looked no different than he had the day he died…. No different from the dozens of times he’d visited me since then. He was still wearing the shirt he’d died in—the shirt I’d slept with for so many years.

“I heard you were having some… issues,” my dad said. That’s the problem with ghosts. When they aren’t haunting people, they sit around in the spectral plane, gossiping. Dad had even met Jesse…. A prospect I found too horrifying toeven contemplate sometimes.

And of course, when you’re dead… well… there isn’t a whole lot to do. I knew my dad spent a goodly portion of his free time basically spying on me.

“Been a while since we had a chat,” Dad went on, looking around the kitchen appreciatively. His gaze fell on the sliding glass doors and he noticed the hot tub. He whistled appreciatively. “That’s new.”

“Andy built it,” I said. I started in on the glass dish Andy had roasted the pork in.

“Is there anything that guy can’t do?” my dad wanted to know. But he was, I knew, being sarcastic. My dad doesn’t like Andy. At least, not that much.

“No,” I said. “Andy is a man of many talents. And I don’t know what you’ve seen—or heard—but I’m fine, Dad. Really.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to be anything else.” My dad looked more closely at the kitchen counters. “Is that real granite? Or imitation?”

“Dad.” I nearly threw the dish towel at him. “Quit stalling and say what you came to say. Because if it’s what I think you’re here to say, no deal.”

“And what do you think that is?” Dad wanted to know, folding his arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter.

“I’m not going to let him do it, Dad,” I said. “I’m not.”

My dad sighed. Not because he was sad. He sighed with happiness. In life, Dad had been a lawyer. In death, he still relished a good argument.

“Jesse deserves another chance,” he said. “I know it. You know it.”

“If he doesn’t die,” I said, attacking the potato pot with perhaps more energy than was strictly necessary, “I’ll never meet him. Same with you.”

Dad raised his eyebrows. “Same with… oh, you mean you thought about saving me?” He looked pleased. “Suze, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

That did it. Just those ten little words. Suddenly, something inside of me seemed to break, and a second later, I was sobbing in his arms… only silently, so no one else in the house could hear.

“Oh, Dad,” I wept into his shirtfront. “I don’t know what to do. I want to bring you back. I do, I really do.”

Dad stroked my hair and said in the kindest voice imaginable, “I know. I know you do, kiddo.”

That just made me cry harder. “But if I save you,” I choked, “I’ll never meet him.”

“I know,” my dad said again. “Susie, I know.”

“What should I do, Dad?” I asked, lifting my head from his chest and attempting to control myself—his shirt was practically soaked already. “I’m so confused. Help me. Please.”