Susan Matthews

Read the opener for my chick lit novel. GINA COLABELLI is a beautiful bitch on wheels and that's been working for her. She's got it all at age 27 - a great job in advertising, fabulous sex life and a swanky new town house. Then, it's all blown away. The father she never knew is about to turn state's evidence against a Philadelphia mob boss and her life is changed forever.

Chapter One

My cat is on fire. It's the first thought that sinks in as I sit dazed in my driveway. Fiery debris pelts the hood of my BMW as I absorb what just happened. I had pushed the garage door opener and BOOM! I am shaken to my core and my town home is engulfed in black smoke and flames.

I see Max with his flaming tail run by and it yanks me out of my shock. My cat is on fire! I throw my car into reverse and park on the street. Sprinting back to my house, I catch him as he darts by again.

Grade school fireman visits taught me one thing - drop and roll. Try that in a pencil skirt and three-inch heels with a frightened cat. Clutching Max tail side out, I drop to the ground and roll. Trying not to crush him, I roll through the pain of digging claws. I roll and roll across my tiny patch of lawn until his tail is extinguished and I'm looking at a pair of well-worn sneakers. Max hisses as I struggle to cling to him.

"You all right?" asks the middle-aged man wearing the sneakers.

He crouches down to help me up. He's the neighbor who jogs by my house every night just as I'm pulling in. I've never spoken to him. For that matter, I've never met any of my neighbors, who are now frantically gathering at a safe distance across the street. I've never even said hello to any of them - and that was intentional.

I grew up in South Philly, where the world is as big as your front stoop. Neighbors congregate on those concrete squares at the top of their steps every evening as garlic-laden aromas drift through the front door out to the street. As the gravy simmers inside, generous helpings of gossip are served outside. Everybody knows everyone else's personal business. That's exactly why I moved to Old City - anonymity. My new neighborhood's gentrification brought in a mix of suits and reclusive artists. Perfect for me. I'm not what you would call a people person.

Now, all eyes are on me as Neighbor Guy guides me across the street away from the choking fog of smoke and embers. Bystanders move in slow motion and everyone sounds like the grown ups in Charlie Brown. My senses slowly begin to return and the odor of scorched fur and burnt cashmere fills my nose as I survey the scene of destruction.