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and my boyfriend has post-­traumatic stress from being dead. And is also Catholic and a century and a half years old, of course, even though he doesn’t look a day over twenty-­six.
    â€œI happen to be making a B in Statistics, Jesse,” I said. “That’s above average. And no one balances their checkbook. No one even has a checkbook anymore, except for you and Father Dominic.”
    â€œStop avoiding the subject, querida .” He regarded me impassively from the bed. “And stop thinking you’ll distract me from it, too, by undressing in front of me.”
    Damn .
    â€œFine.” I snatched a dry shirt from my school-­issued dresser. “If you must know, I was at the cemetery.”
    He raised one dark eyebrow—­the one with the scar through it, a perfect crescent moon of brown skin where dark hair should have been. “Cemetery?” he echoed.
    Then indignation swiftly replaced bewilderment.
    â€œWas that what I felt earlier?” he demanded, rising from the bed. “I thought it was because you were out there driving in this storm. But that wasn’t it, was it? It was because you were chasing a ghost, alone, in a cemetery, at night .”
    I’d begun peeling off my boots. I know he’d asked me not to undress in front of him, but my jeans were soaked. I needed to change them.
    Okay, they might have not been that wet. But I needed time to come up with a reply that wouldn’t enrage him. This was an evasive maneuver.
    â€œJesse, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean, what you felt earlier?”
    â€œYou know exactly what I’m talking about. We may no longer have a ghost-­mediator connection, Susannah, but I can still tell when you’re feeling afraid, and earlier this evening, you were very, very afraid—­”
    Now I was the one who felt indignant. I nearly dropped one of my boots.
    â€œAfraid? I wasn’t afraid of that little brat. I just didn’t enjoy being pelted by funerary floral arrangements, that’s all.”
    â€œSusannah.” Now he was looming over me, seventy-­three inches or so of tasty man-­meat. “ What happened in the cemetery? ”
    Susannah.
    I felt another chill down my spine, but unlike the one I’d felt when I’d seen the name Paul Slater on the envelope Lauren had handed me, this one was pleasant.
    As hard as it is to date someone with nineteenth-­century manners—­seriously, it’s getting to a point where I spend so much time swimming laps in the campus pool to work off my sexual frustration, my highlights are becoming brassy—­I still feel a thrill every time Jesse calls me Susannah. He thinks the name everyone else calls me—­Suze—­is too short and ugly for someone of my strength and beauty.
    Yeah. He gets me. Well, except for the part where I’m totally fine with premarital sex and am also convinced that God, if he or she exists, is, too.
    â€œWell,” I said, since he was still looming over me, looking more like a dominating he-­male than a nerdy doctor-­to-­be. I had no choice but to tell him, even though I knew it was going to make him mad. “Okay, so there’s this NCDP who’s been stealing flowers off his dead girlfriend’s grave, and the girl’s family got it on video—­well, static is what they mostly got, but it’s been freaking everybody out—­I’m surprised you haven’t seen it, it’s been all over the news. But I guess you’ve been busy with your studying and interviews and stuff. So, anyway, I decided to go check it out tonight.” I wiggled out of my jeans. “And long story short, this guy, Mark, says—­”
    â€œ Susannah .” My name came out in a frustrated hiss. When I glanced in his direction, I saw that Jesse had turned to face my window, the curtains of which he’d closed, so no one could