One drawback to being on stage for most of your life is that eventually you forget how to act when you're off it. Not that it matters. In such a life, you're never really offstage. Even walking from your bedroom to the kitchen you can't lower your guard . . . at least not if you’re on the set of one of the most anticipated TV specials of the season—one costarring you.

I’d started my career at the age of three, forced onto the toddler beauty pageant catwalks by a mother who’d already decided I needed to earn my keep. I should have grown up dreaming of the day I’d be off that stage. But when I stepped into the limelight, every eye was on me and I shone. It became my refuge and now, forty years later, while there were days when I really didn’t feel like strapping on four-inch heels and smiling until my jaw hurt, my heart still beat a little faster as I walked down that hall.

The buzz of a saw drowned out the clicking of my heels on the hardwood. I caught a whiff of sawdust and oil, and shuddered to imagine what alterations the crew was making to the house. From what I'd heard, the homeowners weren't likely to complain—they desperately needed the money. The "official" rumor was a failed film project, but the one I'd heard involved an unplanned baby project with the nanny. Tabloid stories to be suppressed, a young woman to be paid off, a wife to placate—it could all get very expensive.

As I passed a young man measuring the hall, I nodded and his jaw dropped.

"M—Ms. Vegas? Jaime Vegas?"

I swung around, and fixed him with a megawatt smile that I didn’t need to fake. Shallow of me, I know, but there's no ego boost like the slack-jawed gape of a man half your age.

"Geez, it is you." He hurried over to shake my hand. "Could I—? I know it’s unprofessional to ask, but is there any chance of getting an autograph?"

"Of course. I'm heading to a meeting right now, but you can grab an autograph from me anytime. Just bring me something to sign. Or if you prefer a photo . . ."

"A photo would be great."

My smile brightened. "A photo it is, then. I have some in my room."

"Thanks. Grandpa will love it. He’s such a fan of yours. He has a thing for redheads, but you’re his favorite. All his buddies in the nursing home think you're hot."

Just what I needed on the first day of a big job—the reminder that in Hollywood time, I was already a decade past my best-before date.

I kept smiling, though. Another minute of conversation, and the promise of a handful of signed photos for Gramps and the boys, and I was off again.

As I neared the dining room, I heard a crisp British voice snap, "Because it's ridiculous, that's why. Mr. Grady is a professional. He will not be subjected to mockery."

Before I pushed open the door, I pictured the speaker: a stylish woman, roughly my age, dressed in a suit and oozing efficiency. I walked in, and there she was—short blond hair, thin lips, small and wiry, as if extra flesh would be a sign of softness she could ill afford. Icy green eyes glared from behind her tiny glasses. Personal assistant model A: the bulldog, designed to raise hell on her client's behalf, leaving him free to play the gracious, good-natured star.

Facing her was a younger woman, maybe thirty, dumpy, with a shoulder-length bob and worried eyes. Director model C: the overwhelmed first-timer.

The dining room, like most of the house, had been "redecorated" to accommodate the shoot. The homeowners had cleared out anything they didn’t want damaged, so the dining set was gone, replaced by a cheaper one. As for the dead guy hanging from the chandelier, I suspected he came with the house, and was probably tough to remove without an exorcism or two.

The hanging man was maybe fifty, average size but with heavy jowls, as if he’d lost a lot of weight, fast. He swayed from an old crystal chandelier, superimposed over the modern one. His face was mottled and swollen, eyes thankfully closed.

I eyed him from the doorway so I wouldn’t be tempted to stare once I was in the room. After thirty years of seeing ghosts, you learn all the tricks.

This one, though, wasn’t a ghost, but a residual. What tragedy had brought him to an end so emotionally powerful that the image was seared forever in this room? I doused my curiosity. It would do me no good. When you see scenes like this every day, you can’t afford to stop and wonder. You just can’t.

Both women turned as I entered. The assistant's gaze slid over me, lips tightening as if someone had shoved a lemon wedge in her mouth. I flashed a smile and her lips pursed more. If you can't still turn the heads of twenty-year-old boys, winning the catty disapproval of women your own age is a good consolation prize.

I stopped a hairbreadth from the hanged man and tried not to recoil as his swaying body circled my way.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," I said to the woman with the worried eyes. "I was sent to speak to the director, Becky Cheung. Would that be you?"

She smiled and extended a hand. "It is. And you must be Jaime Vegas. This is Claudia Wilson, Mr. Bradford Grady's assistant."

I shook Cheung's hand. "Should I step outside and let you two finish?"

"No, no." Desperation touched Becky’s voice. "This concerns you too. We're discussing a promo shot. Mr. Simon has decided he wants the three stars to say a line."

Claudia shot a hard look at Becky. "A specific line. Tell her what it is."

"Um . . . ‘I see dead people.’"

The hanged man’s stockinged foot swung past my arm as I managed a laugh. "I think I've heard that one before."

Becky's gaze went to mine, searching for some sign that I was offended. "We—Mr. Simon—thought it would be fun."

"It sounds like a cute gimmick."

"Mr. Grady does not do gimmicks," Claudia said, then strode from the room.

"Thanks," Becky whispered. "This isn't as easy as I thought. Everyone's taking it very . . . "

"Seriously? We're trying to raise the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. If that doesn't scream cheap thrills, what does? I'm in it for the fun." I grinned. "And the chance to spend a week in a neighborhood like this."

"Not everyone is so thrilled with that part. I think we're going to lose Starr Phillips."

"I heard she wasn't happy about the living arrangements."

"I know it's unusual, but the studio is all over us to cut the budget. Mr. Simon thought this would be the most efficient way to handle the preshow tapings. Put the three of you up in a rented house in Brentwood, a block from the Monroe home, where we can do all the preshow work and media in one swoop." A crew member motioned from the doorway. "Whoops. Gotta run. Here's your schedule for the afternoon, just media interviews and—"

My cell phone rang. I could tell who it was by the ring tone, and I'm sure I broke into a grin more becoming to a four-year-old than a woman of forty-four. I motioned to Becky that I’d just be a second, then told the caller I’d phone right back. When I hung up, Becky gave me a ten-second rundown on my afternoon obligations, and passed me the schedule. Then I was sprinting for the door as fast as my platform sandals could take me. Four-inch heels aren’t made for anything speedier than a runway stroll, but I pushed them to a quick march, inspiring a look of alarm from two passing workmen.

I told myself Jeremy had a plane to catch, but even if he hadn’t, I’d still have hurried.

I know I should have more self-respect. More dignity. The way I see it, though, it's karmic payback. I've always been the one leading the chase—inspiring the bad love poetry, setting the hoops ever higher—then waltzing away when I grew bored. Now, I guess some cosmic force had decided it was time for me to make a fool of myself.

I’d taken a big chance asking Jeremy to join me for the week. We were—despite my hopes—just friends. Then, a few weeks ago, we'd been talking about the show and, having had a few drinks, the segue came easily. To my shock, he’d said yes. Now he was flying three thousand miles just to see me. That had to mean something.

The patio opened to a terraced yard stuffed with perennial borders, gazebos, ornamental trees and statuary. As I trotted along the flagstone path, winding around one fountain, one pond and two oversized statues, I wondered whether a trail of bread crumbs would have been wise.

Finally, far enough from the house to mentally step offstage, I found a wooden bench. Jeremy answered after the first ring.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" he asked.

"No, I was just getting my schedule for the day. Mainly interviews plus some meet-and-greets, culminating, of course, in the welcome bash tonight—which, lucky man, you'll be just in time for. I hope you're ready to play party escort."

I stopped for breath. Silence filled the pause, and I winced and mentally smacked myself. Jeremy at a Hollywood party? He’d rather face off against a pack of ravenous wolves.

"I'm just kidding," I said. "You’ll be jet-lagged, and I'm sure you don’t have a tux—"

"I do. And it’s packed. The party isn't a problem, Jaime . . ."

When he let the line trail off, my heart started thumping.

"The babies are sick. It's just a cold, but it’s their first—"

A scream drowned him out—less like the wail of a sick baby than the roar of a wounded lion. I recognized Katherine, one of his foster son Clayton’s fourteen-month-old twins.

"Jesus, poor Kate," I said. "She sounds miserable."

Jeremy chuckled. "She's not that ill, actually. It's Logan who's bearing the brunt of it. Of course, he's not complaining, but he’s quite willing to let her express outrage on his behalf."

"How’s Clay taking it? Or dare I ask."

"Let’s just say he's not making it any easier. We don’t usually contract colds, so he’s worried. I’m sure it’s no cause for alarm but . . ."

He let the sentence trail off. I understood his concern. A werewolf’s increased immunity meant sickness was rare, so even a cold would be worrying. If the situation worsened, Clay and Elena couldn’t just bundle the little ones off to the emergency ward, or the doctors might discover they carried something far more alarming than a cold virus. Jeremy wasn’t a doctor, but he was the Pack’s medical expert and they’d need him there. Even more important, he’d want to be there.

"Stay," I said. "We can do this another time."

"No, I am coming, Jaime. I'll be there soon as I can, hopefully tomorrow."

My heart gave a little flip. "Good. Then look after those babies, tell everyone I said hi and I'll get an update in the morning."

When I signed off, I closed my eyes, listened to the birds chirp and rustle in the hedges, and let the wisps of disappointment float away. To my surprise, they were only wisps. If Jeremy had made any other choice, he wouldn't be the man I'd raced at breakneck speed to talk to. Family—and family responsibilities—came first, and that was fine by me, even when I knew his priorities wouldn’t change, whatever form our relationship might take.

The birds had gone silent, their song replaced by the soft whisper of the wind and the tinkle of distant chimes. I looked around as I rose.

"Hello?" I said.

Someone touched my arm. I wheeled, but no one was there. I rubbed the spot. Probably a butterfly brushing past. It wouldn’t be a ghost—with them I only got sight and sound, no touch.

I checked the schedule Becky had given me. Three interviews plus—

Fingers clasped my free hand. Resisting the urge to yank away, I looked down. Nothing. Yet I could feel the unmistakable sensation of a hand holding mine.

My gut went cold. This was how it had started with Nan. A lifetime of seeing what shouldn't be there and eventually she started imagining what she knew couldn't be there. That's what happens to necromancers, and that’s what I am, same as my Nan.

Like most supernatural powers, necromancy runs in the blood. It often skips a generation or two, but in our family no one is spared. We see and hear the dead, and they are relentless in their quest to be heard. I may have learned a way to profit from my powers, but if I could be free of the ghosts, I’d give it up in a heartbeat and muddle through like every other con artist in the business. Better that than this long, cursed road that ends in madness.

The fingers slid from my hand. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Once before I’d had a ghost who’d been able to touch me. Didn’t hold my hand, though. She’d sunk her fangs into my neck and nearly killed me, all because she couldn’t make contact the normal way. Typical vampire—thinks the world exists to serve them.

But the chance that I’d encounter another dead vamp was remote. Extremely rare to begin with, they’re so uncommon in the afterlife that I’d found only unconfirmed ancient tales of necromancers contacting one. If a vampire is already dead when it walks this world, where does one go when it passes into the next?

Somehow Natasha had clawed her way back and made contact with me, physical contact, as this ghost had now done. I rubbed the spot on my neck and cast a nervous glance around.

I let my mind shift to the semitrance state that would let me see ghosts too weak or inexperienced to pass over. Around me, everything seemed to go still, the wind chimes faint and distant, the gardens blurring.

"Hello?" I said. "Is anyone here?"

I kept turning and calling out, but no one answered. A sharp shake of my head and I was back to Earth.

"Ms. Vegas?"

I spun as a security guard peeked around a hedge.

"Didn't mean to startle you. Were you calling for someone?"

"Actually, yes," I said with a rueful smile. "I’m hopelessly lost."

He laughed. "This place is a maze, isn’t it? Come on then, and I’ll walk you back."