Blessed are the Dead by Kristi Belcamino Read Free Book Online

big deal. I didn’t wait that long anyway. Yes. The waiter gave me your message. Yes, he brought me out a cupcake and a candle. Thank you. Listen, Dad, I have to go, I’m at work now. Bye.”
    She hangs up, and I see her surreptitiously run a manicured finger below her eye. I give her a moment.
    â€œHey, May, is it your birthday today?” I ask in a quiet voice.
    â€œYes,” she snaps at me.
    â€œCan I buy you a coffee? I’m heading to the cafeteria.”
    â€œNo,” she says, and sniffs.
    I’m walking away when she calls my name, so I turn back.
    â€œThank you,” she says, and quickly turns away.
    I feel bad for May, but we’ve had a rough start. Her first day, I had spent the morning crawling through underground tunnels and climbing around abandoned buildings on the Fort Ord former military base for a story about FBI training. I’d tagged along behind agents lugging M15 rifles at The Impossible City—­a replica of a real town with a gas station, s schoolhouse, bombed-­out vehicles, and mannequins scattered throughout the city, seemingly jumping out at every turn. Creepy. But most of the base is like that—­a ghost town.
    My clothes were ripped and filthy when the editors called me over to introduce me to May DuPont.
    She sported pearls, perfect hair, and shiny penny loafers. I caught her briefly wrinkling her tiny nose at my unkempt clothing before she plastered a wide smile on her face and gushed about how she was a big fan of my reporting. As soon as we were alone at our desks, she turned her back on me without another word the rest of the night.
    Back at my desk with my coffee, I concentrate on finishing my story. I push back my memories and give myself a pep talk as I type. Just write the story. Stick to the facts. Who. What. Where. When. How. Why.
    See. It’s only a story like any other. You can handle it. No problem. It’s not the same. It’s a totally different situation.
    I just need to do my job. If I know anything, it’s how to write about the seedier side of life. And in all honesty, that’s what I love about the crime beat. Life isn’t one party after the other. Bad things happen. Anyone who doesn’t realize that is foolish and living in a dreamworld. I know the truth about life—­that you can never take one second of it for granted. I’m better off because I realized this at a young age. But deep down, I know that I’m ignoring the shadows hovering just outside my peripheral vision.

 
    Chapter 6
    L IKE A T ECHNICOLOR silent-­movie reel, Jasmine appears in my dreams tonight, swinging at a playground. I don’t hear her—­only see her laughing. She wears a frilly pink dress, white ruffled socks, and shiny black shoes. Leaning back, her hair falls behind her as she looks up at downy white clouds drifting in the blue sky. Hopping off the swing, laughing, she runs to the monkey bars. She loops her legs and hangs upside down with the skirt of her dress temporarily obscuring her face. The rest of the playground is empty. She gets down and plays hopscotch by herself. She runs and laughs. She never glances my way.
    The wind starts to pick up and whips dried leaves around the playground. Tiny dust devils suck up the leaves swirling and twirling inches above the pavement. Dark clouds spread their wings and blot out the sun. Jasmine looks around. Her eyes widen as she stares just over my shoulder. I turn, but there is nothing there.
    I wake with my heart pounding.
    Within an hour, I’m at her apartment. It’s 7:30 A.M. , right when police say Jasmine left for the bus stop. I want to put myself in her shoes. I want to try to experience what she did every day. I wonder if there will be many other kids at her bus stop. I’m surprised that enough families with children live downtown to warrant a stop.
    Because Rosarito is only thirty-­five miles from San Francisco, it’s become a