“Something captured on a surveillance camera?” Or someone.

Pops shakes his head. “I wish, but there are no surveillance cams on Brandon’s private road until you get to his house.”

“What about in the neighborhood?”

A look of frustration washes over his face. His shoulders slouch. “There was a power outage that morning. Some motherfucker moving van took down a power line, and everyone within three miles lost power.”

That happens frequently in The Hills. The outages can sometimes last for hours…until the DWP fixes the problem. Brandon’s house was probably affected that day as well though I wasn’t aware of it. I rode with him in the ambulance to the hospital and didn’t get back home till late in the night. The sound of the blaring siren resounds in my head, arousing more vivid memories. Unconscious, with his head bandaged, his face drained of all color, and his breathing labored beneath an oxygen mask, Brandon didn’t look like he’d make it. A lapsed Catholic, I prayed for him and hoped God heard my words and witnessed my tears. Losing him was unfathomable.

“Babycakes, I want to show you something.”

Pops’s voice once again jolts me out of the excruciating memory. Just like the day Mama was murdered, it’s unforgettable. I think I’ll relive it forever and ever. Forcing it to the back of my mind, I focus my eyes on my father as he yanks open a creaky desk drawer. He reaches into it and retrieves a small zip lock bag. He slides it open and shakes out what’s inside. I study the heart-shaped green object that’s now sitting in the palm of his wide hand.

“We found this close to the crime scene.”

At the words crime scene, a chill sweeps over me. Pops explains to me that even if Brandon’s accident wasn’t a premeditated murder, his hit and run could be tried as a felony because of the severe nature of his injury—punishable with a big fine and up to five years in prison. Personally, I think that’s too lenient; whoever ran over Brandon should get a much longer term.

“Do you have any clue what this is?” he asks, glancing down at the evidence. “All we know is that it’s a piece of Venetian glass from Italy.”

“It looks like it could be part of an earring or some kind of pendant. Why is it so chipped and scratched?”

“Probably, it was brushed along the street by the sweeper or it got stepped on before anyone noticed. Does it look at all familiar to you?”

I shake my head. “I don’t recognize it.”

“Is it something Katrina would wear?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Pops, I thought we were done with her. But if you really want to know, I don’t think she’d wear anything that didn’t come from Tiffany’s or one of those other fancy shmancy Beverly Hills jewelry stores.”

Chewing on his bottom lip, he rubs his dimpled chin with the thumb of his other hand. He always does this when he’s thinking or onto something. “I have a hunch that whoever ran over Brandon Taylor was wearing this.”

I play devil’s advocate. “A lot of super rich women jog up and down Brandon’s street. The housewives of Beverly Hills. It could have simply fallen off one of them. And with all their money, they may not have noticed or cared.”

“Yup. That’s a definite possibility.” I sense a tinge of frustration in my father’s voice, but know he’s not going to give up. Even though it’s now considered a cold case, he’s never stopped looking for Mama’s murderer.

I play detective. “Were you able to get any fingerprints off it?”

“No luck. The surface is too scratched.”

“That’s too bad.”

Pinching his lips, Pops puts the evidence back into the plastic bag and after sealing it, returns it to the drawer. He glances down at his watch. A wedding gift from Auntie Jo, he never takes it off. They’ve been married thirty years. The frayed brown leather band shows its age.

He pushes himself away from his desk. “Gotta go. Your mother’s made her famous pot roast and I promised I’d be home by six.”

He shrugs on his signature last century trench coat and rounds his desk as I stand up. He gives me a bear hug.

“Put some meat on those bones, babycakes. Come by one night; your mother will fatten you up.”

I laugh. The last thing former size-twelve me needs is fattening up.

“Give my love to Jo.” I pause. “And tell her I’ll work on getting her onto the set so she can personally meet Brandon Taylor.”

Pops’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Oh boy, you’re gonna make her night. She’d love that! That woman is totally in love with him.”

Every woman in the world is in love with Brandon Taylor. Except he’s giving his heart to only one. A sharp pang of jealousy stabs me. I hate her.

Brandon

Goddamn LA traffic. What I thought would only take twenty minutes takes me almost an hour. The bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic on La Cienega is a nightmare, and there’s a fender bender that slows things down even more. I seriously want to shoot the two bickering idiots who collided. There’s a reason for road rage.

When I get to the Conquest lot, I pull my Lambo into my VIP reserved parking spot and jog over to the building where the focus groups are being held. I forgot how big the lot is—practically the size of a college campus—and it takes me more time than I thought to get there. I’m late for the focus groups. Glancing down at my watch, I come to the conclusion I’ve already missed the first one with men. Dammit!

I fly into the observation room and apologize for my tardiness. Despite my lateness, all the attendees are thrilled to see me and are totally understanding. Thanks to a file Zoey left me, I recognize all their faces and know their names.

Seated on an oversized leather couch with his long legs outstretched on the coffee table and a sandwich on his lap, Blake smiles.

“No problem, man. Grab a sandwich and take a seat. Libby’s about to start the women’s group.” He chomps into his sandwich.

Before I can join him, the others in the room all jump up and successively give me man hugs.

“So good to see you, Brand-O,” says Doug DeMille, the show’s slick Executive Producer.

“You wouldn’t believe how many emails and letters we’ve gotten wanting to know when you’d be coming back,” chimes in Trevor Reeves, the suited-up Blake wannabe VP of Drama.

“It sucked dick having to write you out of the script,” quips Mitch Steiner, the show’s scruffy head writer.

I laugh at his light-hearted gripe and head over to the platter of sandwiches on the credenza. I help myself to a tuna on rye and grab a Coke. Setting the paper plate and soda can down on the coffee table, I take a seat next to Blake.

“How’s it been going?” I ask him after taking a bite of the tasty sandwich.

“Great. The men’s group was really receptive to your story idea.”

I still don’t know what the hell that is, but I don’t ask him. I look through the wall-to-wall one-way mirror and focus my attention on the women’s group in progress. There’s a total of nine respondents, various ages and ethnicities. I’d say the youngest is in her twenties, the oldest in her fifties. From what I’ve learned, Kurt Kussler has widespread appeal, the core viewers being 18-49. At the head of the table sits a bright-eyed woman with a mop of copper curls, likely in her twenties. Addressing the group of women, she must be Libby, the group moderator.

“Remember, there are no right or wrong answers. What matters are your true and honest opinions.”

Her voice is warm but authoritative. While she continues to explain focus group rules and regulations, Blake tells me the group is composed of “heavy” Kurt Kussler viewers.

“What does that mean?” I ask after swallowing a glug of Coke.