"You can see me?" the spirit asked.

I made sure the door was locked and the curtains were closed before I gave him a reluctant nod.

He rubbed a hand over his tensed mouth, the lines between his soft eyebrows deepening. As he redirected his gaze back to the man lying unconscious on the bed, I began to notice the similarity between them.

The handsome spirit had an almost symmetrical face with chiseled features, his dirty-blonde hair styled in a simple textured crew cut. Meanwhile, the unconscious man was unrecognizable underneath the pile of non-stick bandages. Nevertheless, the resemblance between them was uncanny. The unconscious man had the same athletic build, bone structure, and dirty-blonde hair—or whatever was left of it—as the spirit next to me; which made me wonder if they were the same person.

But how? He's alive—well, he's nearly almost dead. But he's not quite dead yet. How did his soul get separated from his body?

"So . . ." The spirit tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his ragged blue jeans. "Am I . . . dead?"

"No, of course not. Your heart rate's perfectly fine." I gestured at the beeping heart monitor beside the bed. "You're in a medically induced coma. We're keeping you asleep until your body begins to heal. It helps with the pain."

Relief washed over his gorgeous face, yet the sorrow in his emerald-green eyes remained. "So this is really me, huh?"

I knitted my eyebrows together. "You don't know?"

He pulled his mouth into a tight line and shook his head.

"Well, where did you wake up? Did you climb out of this guy's body? Or did you come out of a coffin? Or—ooh! There was this one ghost I knew that woke up in a cremation . . . cham . . . ber." I clamped my mouth shut and gave the spirit a tight grin.

An amused smile softened his countenance. "I woke up a few miles away from here. It was a scene of a car accident, I think. There were cops everywhere, but none of them could hear me or see me." He rubbed his forehead and shook his head. "When one of them walked right through me, I thought I must've hit my head hard and went nuts. But then I found out I could also walk through doors, so I figured I must've been . . . dead."

I should've stopped asking questions. I really should've. But I couldn't. "How did you end up here?"

"I didn't know what to do or where to go, so I let my feet guide me. And here I am."

"Oh." My curiosity wanted me to interrogate him further, but the recollection of what happened in Boston gave me enough strength to suppress it. "I'm so sorry." A brief silence hung in the air before I was reminded of what I came here for. "May I?" I gestured at his soulless body.

"Oh, sure." He stepped back and let me examine him—the soulless body, not the spirit.

The first twenty-four hours after surgery were always the toughest, but he was doing much better than I expected. When the doctors had finished the surgery a few hours ago, the carboxyhemoglobin level in his blood was almost fifty percent. Yet now, it had been decreased to ten percent—almost three times less than I expected. Strange.

I made sure the CO-oximeter was correctly positioned on the end of his finger before double-checking the readings on the monitor.

"Is something wrong?" the spirit asked.

"No, no. Your carboxyhemoglobin—the carbon monoxide level in your blood—is dropping fast."

"That's a good thing, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." I pushed my confusion aside and reminded myself that people heal at different rates. After checking his soulless body's condition, I grabbed the medical chart tucked inside a plastic-covered placeholder at the foot of the bed and wrote my observation on the chart.

"So does everyone in a medically-induced coma get turned into . . . whatever I am now?"

"You're the first that I know of, to be honest. All the ghosts I've met before you were dead dead." My curiosity directed my gaze to the intubated mummy on the bed. Self-doubt crept into my mind. "Then again, this is my first case putting a patient into a medically-induced coma on my own—"

The spirit furrowed his brow in concern, most probably wondering if I was skilled enough to pull off such a complicated procedure.

"Don't worry," I quickly said. "You're in good hands. We're going to take good care of you, and you're going to get better. I'm sure your spirit will return to your body once we wake you up. In the meantime, just enjoy being a ghost—uh, spirit."

He let out a tiny, somewhat confused chuckle. "Enjoy being a ghost?"

"Yeah. Being a ghost has its perks too. You can walk through any door, so you can go anywhere for free. You can even stay inside the movies for the whole day and won't be charged a dime. But ladies' rooms are still off-limits, okay?"

He chuckled. "Roger that."

"Go visit your family, your friends, your pets—oh. I almost forgot. What's your name? You didn't have any ID with you when they brought you in, so we just call you Freddy—uh, John Doe for now. The police are trying to figure out who you are as we speak, but—"

His smile faltered, replaced by a look of confusion.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"You're saying this is not normal?"

"Well, if you call being a ghost while you're alive is normal—"

"No, not that. You said I should visit my family, friends, and pets." He licked his lips, his brow creasing in deep thought. "But I don't remember anything."

My curiosity shot through the roof. "What do you mean you don't remember anything? Surely, you remember something. Your name, at least?"

"No. Nothing." He shook his head and clenched his jaw. "I thought it was normal for someone in my condition."

"Honestly, no. All the ghosts I've met so far have always remembered everything that has happened in their lives. But you have cerebral edema because of your accident earlier, and memory loss is quite common following a . . ."

My voice trailed away when I noticed his eyes were now red with tears. He drew his gaze away and put his hand over his mouth, shielding his sorrow from me.

"Hey." I took a step forward toward him. "I know it's confusing and scary, but it's going to be okay. Give it a few days. Walk around the town. I'm sure your memory will return before you know it."

Doubt filled his eyes, but he forced a nod. And that was when I saw a familiar look in his eyes—a desperate plea.

Having dealt with more ghosts than I ever wanted, I knew he wanted to ask for my help. But for some reason, he didn't. My nagging conscience tried to convince me to help this guy find out who he was.

Don't get involved, Alexis. You don't want history to repeat itself, do you?

The awful memory of what had happened last year was strong enough to silence my conscience. But deep down, I knew it wouldn't be long before I got sucked back into the circus of the dead.

***

I couldn't sleep at all last night. My stupid conscience kept waking me up every five minutes or so, tempting me to return to the life I'd left. I'd been fighting it by distracting myself with work or anything else I could find. Right now, the plate of my favorite breakfast served as the perfect distraction.

The fresh aroma of butter and tart-sweet apple intermingling with warm, delicious spices made my stomach growl. I grabbed my fork and shoveled a forkful of the pie into my mouth. Hmm. This is heaven. I closed my eyes and savored the taste of perfection.

Casa Nova Hospital's cafeteria was the best place to eat in town. The earthy-hued interior offered a relaxing atmosphere, the food was super tasty, and the best part? Everyone who worked at the hospital got a fifty-percent discount.

"I still can't believe that jerk tricked me again." Claire jabbed her fork into her salad and stuffed the mix of chicken and lettuce into her mouth.

"Who?"

"Lucas," Claire hissed.

The mere mention of that weirdo's name almost made me lose my appetite. "Let me guess." I curled my lips and stabbed my pie, imagining it was that obnoxious PI's face. "He forgot to bring his wallet?"

"Oh, no. He brought his wallet, alright. But he didn't have a dime in it, and all his credit cards were maxed out."

I almost choked on my pie. Although I disliked that guy, I had to admit the way he tricked Claire was clever. "That manipulative bastard," I mumbled.

"Seriously, if he hadn't been my fourth cousin and my brother's only friend, I would've sued him for fraud. I know he's broke, and cursed, and everything. But that is exactly why he's still—and probably will always be—single! Seriously, I pity his future girlfriend."

"To think that just last week, you said he and I were a match made in heaven."

"Oh, you two are a match made in heaven, alright." As I frowned in confusion, she arched her eyebrow. "You realize you still owe me this month's rent, right?"

Oops. I stuffed my mouth with more pie. "Well, in my defense, I spent whatever money I had left to buy you that cold brew coffee maker for your twenty-sixth birthday last week."

"That cost like, twenty-five dollars, Lex. You're a medical fellow. I'm sure you make more than twenty-five dollars per month."

"Yeah, but student loan debt's a b. I'll pay you the rent in full when I get my paycheck next week, okay?"

She grunted. "Fine."

I was about to eat my second plate of apple pie when John Doe, the spirit, entered the room. Although he could walk through doors, he always waited until someone opened the door before walking into any room. I supposed he must've forgotten that he was a spirit. It happened a lot.

As an old woman with a walker inched toward him, John reached to open the door for her. His hand passed through the pull handle, but strangely enough, he didn't give up. He tried again a few times with no better result, until finally, the old woman walked right through him. The frustrated spirit threw his hands into the air in frustration, drawing a snort of chortle from me.

"What are you laughing at?" Claire narrowed her eyes at me.

"It's uh . . . there's a . . . a bug on your head."

Claire shrieked in horror. As she slapped her head in panic, my gaze was drawn to the TV on the wall behind her.

"Casa Nova Police Department is still searching for information that can lead to the identification of the man found at the scene of an auto accident at the Hill two days ago," the anchorwoman said. "The car the man was driving at the time of the accident was reportedly stolen from its owner, a seventy-five-year-old woman residing in Boston."

If I'd heard this news two days ago, I would've believed it and thought John was a creepy, homicidal maniac who wouldn't hesitate to steal from—or maybe even kill—a senior citizen. But having seen what his spirit had tried to do a few seconds ago, I found the news hard to believe.

If all ghosts had been like John, my life would've been so much easier. He didn't pester me to help him like all the ghosts I'd met before, he didn't try to possess me as some had tried, and he didn't threaten to ruin my life unless I found a home for his thirteen cats like that one crazy cat granny once had done.

John was a model ghost—and it made me feel even guiltier for not helping him.

"CNPD has reasons to believe that the unidentified man, who is in his early-to-mid thirties, has something to do with the disappearance of seventeen-year-old Rebecca Hanlon. The local authorities are now coordinating with the Boston PD . . ."

John lumbered toward the TV, a look of shock and distress sweeping across his face. Guilt and sympathy swelled in my chest. No, no, no. You must be strong, Alexis. You can't go back into that life again. It'll be like Boston all over—

"Poor Dr. Hanlon." Claire glanced at the TV. "He and his family are so desperate they're offering a hundred grand to anyone who can provide information about where Becca is."

I flicked my eyes to Claire. "A hundred grand?"

"Mm-hmm."

The possibility of earning one hundred thousand dollars in a flash made me consider a career change. Before long, I started to imagine everything I could buy with that amount of money. For starters, it'd be more than enough to cover my student loan. And I might be able to buy a car with the rest of the money. Or even a small home. Or—

Guilt twisted my stomach as I watched John rushing out of the cafeteria. I chewed my lip, feeling a strong urge to comfort him. Don't, Alexis. There's nothing you can do to help him. Besides, he might be a serial killer. Or at least a criminal.

Or not.

I let out a small sigh. "I gotta go. Could you please ask Mrs. Clayton to wrap this up for me?" I placed my fork on my plate and gave Claire a pleading grin. As she opened her mouth to protest, I continued, "Tell her I'll pick it up after my shift. Thanks!"

"You owe me! Big time!" Claire shouted.

I dashed out of the cafeteria and took the elevator to the third floor, where the critical area was. When I arrived at ICU number three, John was standing next to the bed, his fists clenched beside him.

The squeaking of my cheap sneakers alerted him, and he greeted me with a forced smile. "Hey, Doc."

I closed the door, pushed my hands into my white coat's pocket, and approached him. "How are you holding up?"

"Not good, to be honest. You heard the news. I'm a criminal."

"Don't let the news get to you. This is a small town. The police are some doughnut-loving lazy heads." That earned the tiniest chuckle from him. "They're probably just pointing the blame at you because they don't have any leads in that girl's disappearance."

"But what if it's true? What if I have something to do with that girl's disappearance? You've heard it too. The car I was driving had been stolen." He paused. "I stole the car. From a seventy-five-year-old woman." He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes in regret for a quick second. "What kind of a despicable human being stole a car from a seventy-five-year-old woman?"

A despicable human being did. "There must be some other explanation. A better explanation."

"Such as?"

I racked my brain for an answer but couldn't find any.

John glanced at the intubated mummy on the bed and exhaled a heavy breath. "Can't you just wake me up? That way, I can regain my memory and maybe get that girl back home safely."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but we can't wake you yet."

"Why? If it's because of the pain, I—"

"We put you on a medically induced coma not just because it helps with the pain. You hit your head pretty badly two days ago, and as a result, your brain is swelling. You're healing fast, much faster than any human ever recorded, but it will take weeks before we can safely wake you up."

"Weeks?" He put one hand on his hip and rubbed his face in frustration. "That girl might already be . . ."

Any other ghosts would've focused on proving their innocence or exacting revenge on those who accused them of committing the crime. But not this guy. And his kindness, the way he cared for someone he didn't even remember, moved me.

"There is another way to help her."

The spirit darted his gaze to me, hope flickering in his eyes. "What is it?"

"We can find out who you are, what your relation to her is, and if you're really involved in her disappearance."

He took a moment to think. But then he pulled his mouth into a hard line and shook his head. "I can't ask you to do that for me. It could be dangerous."

This guy deserves an award for Ghost of the Year—no, Ghost of the Century.

I should've taken this as a sign from above. A sign that I shouldn't meddle with things that were way out of my expertise. Unfortunately, his rejection only spurred me on.

"You don't have to ask. I volunteer as tribute," I joked.

But instead of laughing, he knitted his brows together, confused.

"It's a line from this popular—never mind. You don't have to worry about me," I assured him. "Besides, if it makes you feel any better, I'm not doing this just for you. I can use one hundred thousand dollars right now," I added, not entirely lying.

"What?" John tilted his head to the side, confused.

"The missing girl's family offers one hundred thousand dollars to anyone who has information on their daughter's whereabouts."

"Oh."

If John did have a clue about Rebecca Hanlon's disappearance, and if I could help him find her, then I might get that one hundred thousand dollars—and I could really use one hundred thousand dollars. So what if it was going to be like Boston all over again? I'd take the money, move to another country—or perhaps continent—and become a teddy bear surgeon like I'd always wanted.

After all, it was about time my curse brought me something good.

"So, what do you say?"

My heart drummed with anticipation as he pondered the question. He lowered his gaze, licked his lips, and flicked his gaze to me before repeating the process over and over again. Then, after seconds that felt like hours, he asked, "Where do we start?"