How do you stop a killer when you’re a ghost? A question I had to answer before anyone else ended up as dead as I am. It would help if I knew who killed me, of course, but I don’t.
It all began—or ended—two days ago. All right, it probably began well before the day I was pushed to my death from the lighting bridge above the stage.
My name is Antonio Robert Burton. Tonio to my friends. Mom was Italian, thus my first name. Was, because she’s no longer around. Neither is Dad. They were older when I was born and died three months apart, about a year ago. Dad was of English descent, ergo the Robert Burton. I take after both of them, with my mom’s curly, dark hair and Dad’s blue eyes and, in my opinion, a too large nose. David, my roommate—no, my lover, the man I love—disagreed about my nose,
