No Such Thing as a Secret: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As...A Brandy Alexander Mystery) (34 page)

I walked into the kitchen. Rocky was sitting on her little pillow beside the stove She stretched out one tiny paw to greet me, and I scooped her up in my arms, rubbing her soft little white belly with my nose. She purred contentedly and promptly fell asleep. I envied her.

I would have to get a carry-on box for her for the plane ride to L.A. It was hard to believe I’d be leaving in two days, and by the end of the week I’d be back to reporting on monster truck rallies and Thanksgiving diet tips.
Wow. I am freakin’ indispensable
.

I placed the kitten on her pillow and ripped open a package of chocolate cupcakes. I was feeling restless and depressed. I guess it was to be expected after all that had happened.

The answering machine blinked two messages. I pressed the button as I sank my teeth into the cupcake. No ripping off the bottoms this time. I wanted the whole damn thing.

“Hey, Brandy Alexander.”

I never dreamed the sound of my own name could give me so much pleasure. Then again, I had to consider the source.

“It’s Nick. Santiago,” he added after a beat, and I could hear the sweetly mocking laughter in his voice. It warmed me all over. “Call me.”

Message number two was from my parents. My mood had lifted considerably after listening to Nick’s call, and I dialed my parents with a light heart. After a round of the usual questions about my health and welfare, they frankly shocked the hell out of me.

“Brandy, honey, your dad and I have decided to live in Florida year round. We’re selling the house.”

“You’re what?”

“We love our life down here, and we figured with you kids gone it’s foolish to hang on to the place.”

They said a bunch more stuff after that, but I’d stopped listening after they told me they were moving. I made all the appropriate “happy noises” and then I hung up and cried myself silly. How could they sell the only real home I’d ever known? L.A. never felt like “home” to me. Not once in the four years I’ve lived there. Now, some strangers would be parading around in
my
house, with
my
friends, eating
my
TastyKakes, living
my
life!
Unless…

I called my parents back. “Mom, about the house…”

Former Philadelphian Shelly Fredman believes what she once read on a bumper sticker: Reality is for people who lack imagination. She spends an inordinate amount of time eating chocolate and conversing with the characters that live in her head.