Since I had always heard that nothing created a better market for an author's work than an untimely death, I arranged one, and was happy to report that I was selling better than I ever did when I was alive.

Of course there was more to the hereafter than hefty sell-through figures. I found myself a ghost. And if it wasn't bad enough that my books were finally earning back their advance at a time when I wouldn't see the royalty statements, I appeared cursed with the duty of haunting one MaryLou Parker Voltino.

I didn't expect a full-time job once I crossed over, but I tried to make the most of it. I creaked floorboards at night, flittered my fingers at the back of her neck, occasionally moved a favorite mug from the night stand to the counter. All in all, it wasn't a bad, ah, life.

It least at first. Then the second shoe dropped. I discovered that MaryLou was a writer.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over a yellow pad in a way that seemed vaguely familiar. Looking over her shoulder, I saw that she had written the date and the word UNTITLED.

My blood, if I still had any, froze. Please, not a writer. I couldn't go through that misery again.

Hoping that MaryLou was only making a shopping list for some trendy store that I hadn't frequented, I read what she had written during my moment of panic.

"Servilla stepped out onto the moonlit balcony."

Even while I groaned at the idea that my worst fear had been realized, part of me was thrilled to be back in the game. Cupping the back of MaryLou's head in my hands, I leaned close and whispered: "A black widow spider crept closer to Servilla's bare toes."

I moved my head to the side to watch MaryLou write: "The dew on a spider web sparkled like a thousand diamond necklaces. Servilla raised a hand to her pale throat."

Obviously, this wasn't going to be easy. I concentrated on MaryLou, whispering more insistently: "Finding the jugular vein, she plunged the knife through her neck."

I moved my had to the side again. MaryLou wrote: "Lifting the cross that she carried in the other hand, Servilla pressed her lips against it, praying for strength to make the right decision."

Perhaps I had made the wrong decision when I had arranged my own death. I couldn't really be stuck with a romance writer, could I_

Desperate to change the situation, I mustered what little hope remained. "She would kill him tomorrow."

MaryLou wrote: "She would tell him tomorrow."

Who was haunting who_

I yelled, "Sobbing, Servilla threw herself from the balcony."

MaryLou wrote: "Servilla threw a kiss to the night air."

I screamed.