Shane had teased me about having second sight when I’d talked about experiencing déjà vu. Except the person who’d mentioned getting shot during our conversation at the Greek diner hadn’t been me. It had been Shane, and the big difference between his prediction and reality was his survival. I was the one who ended up in the Hudson. A helluva way to call it quits. “This is ridiculous,” Shane said to his own reflection in the window of La Ronde. “I’m behaving like a total romantic goon, touring about Manhattan dredging up memories of Holly Malone. My very own private, useless ghost tour.” My repertoire of “things ghosts can feel” was expanding. It seemed dead people were also capable of going into shock. I had a very intense desire for salts and a shot of brandy. Several shots of brandy. I could remember the events at La Ronde and at the vacant building. The nastiness, the hatred expressed, and the subsequent horror when Shane decided to end our relationship lingered in the air around me.
