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beginning."

    "But I really really can't!"

    "We all say that, too. Well, the first twenty years, anyway."

    I thrust him toward her, like I was offering her a platter of hors d'ouevres. "You take
    him!"

    "My dear, I am almost sixty years old."

    "Sixty years young," I offered wildly.

    Mom shot me a black look. "My child-rearing days .ire over. You, on the other hand, are
    eternally young, have a support system, a rich best friend, a fine soon-to-be-husband, legal
    guardianship, and a blood tie."

    "And on that basis I'm the new mom?"

    "Congratulations," she said, pushing the baby back toward my face. His great, blue
    googley eyes widened at me, as his mouth formed a drool-tinged O. "It's a boy. And now,
    I have to go."

    "You'releaving ?" I nearly shrieked.

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    "I'm supposed to visit your grandfather in the hospice this afternoon. You remember your
    grandfather, dear? Lest you accuse others of neglect."

    "I can't believe you're leaving me like this! I have three words for you, Mother—state-
    funded nursing home. Do you hear me? STATE-FUNDED NURSING HOME!!!" I yelled
    after her, just as Babyjon yarked milk all over my beautiful black designer suit.

Chapter 6

    The kitchen phone rang, and I ran toward it, stopping to plop Babyjon in his port-a-crib (a
    subsidiary of BabyCrap™) on the way, where he promptly flopped over on his back and
    went to sleep. Yeah, well, dead parents were exhausting for everybody.

    I gave thanks for all the junk we'd bought when he'd been born, hoping to have occasional
    chances to babysit. Babysit, not raise him to adulthood! But because of my precautions,
    we had diapers, cribs, formula, bottles, baby blankets, and onesies up the wazoo.

    It was funny, the Ant had only warmed up to nu when she saw how much Babyjon liked
    me. As .1 newborn, he screamed almost constantly from colic (or perhaps rage at the
    decor of his nursery) and only shut up when I held him. Once the Ant saw that, I was the
    number one babysitter.

    Sinclair had not been pleased. But I wasn't going to think about Sinclair, except how much
    I was about to yell at him when I got him on the phone.

    The thought of surprising Sinclair with this kid, I have to admit, gave me a certain
    perverse pleasure. It salved the terror I felt at the sudden responsibility.

    Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) I skidded across the floor and snatched the phone in the middle of the sixth ring. "Hello?
    Sinclair? You bum! Where are you? Hello?"

    "—can't—cell—'

    "Who is this?"

    "—too far—can't—hear"

    I could barely make out the words through the thick static. "Who! Is! This!"

    "—worry—message—country^"

    "Marc? Is that you?"

    "—no other way—don't—okay—"

    "Tina?"

    "—back—time—"

    "Dad? If you're calling from beyond the grave, I'm

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    ¦nig to be very upset," I threatened. There wasn't even a click. Just a dead line.

    I sat down at the table, deliberately forgetting about ill the times the bunch of us had sat
    around making smoothies or inventing absurd drinks (e.g., The Queen Betsy: one ounce
    amaretto, two ounces orange juice, three ounces cranberry juice, seven ounces of
    champagne, and let me tell you, it was heaven in a martini glass).

    I thought:Everybody's gone. Everybody.

    I thought:How could they do this to me?

    Okay, Jessica had an excuse. Battling cancer via chemo was a dandy way to get out of
    social obligations. And Detective Berry—well, I didn't especially want him around. He had
    known, once upon a time, that I had died and come back to life. I had drunk his blood,
    once upon a time, and it had gone badly. Sinclair had fixed it by making Nick forget. The
    last thing I needed was for him to be at the same funeral home he'd come to two