Blessed Are Those Who Mourn
by Kristi Belcamino
Mystery / Detective
Date Published: September 29, 2015
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
San
Francisco Bay Area reporter Gabriella Giovanni has finally got it all together:
a devoted and loving boyfriend, Detective Sean Donovan; a beautiful little girl
with him; and her dream job as the cops' reporter for the Bay Herald. But her
success has been hard-won and has left her with debilitating paranoia. When a
string of young co-eds starts to show up dead with suspicious Biblical verses
left on their bodies—the same verses that the man she suspects kidnapped and
murdered her sister twenty years ago had sent to her—she begins to question if
the killer is trying to send her a message.
It is
not until evil strikes Gabriella's own family that her worst fears are
confirmed. As the clock begins to tick, every passing hour means the difference
between life and death to those Gabriella loves...
Chapter 1
Saturday
The setting sun turns my family into dark
silhouettes as I step onto the warm sand. The beach is nearly deserted, except
for a lone figure walking north of us along the sand where the waves are
crashing in from the Pacific Ocean.
A cool breeze makes me glad I trekked to
the car to retrieve my daughter’s little lavender parka. We promised her we’d
stay until the sun set.
Donovan’s back is turned, phone held to his
ear. He’s pacing in his bare feet, his jeans rolled up, a scowl on his face
from what he’s hearing. A murder. Every once in a while he glances back at
Grace kneeling in the sand playing.
Grace has dug deep channels with a small
red shovel, chatting to herself, weaving tales about mermaids and sea creatures
and fairies. She bounces a plastic dinosaur along the sand, a prize won in
kindergarten for reading two books in one week.
Everything I’ve ever wanted is on that
beach—Donovan and our daughter, Grace. My own little family. My life.
I’m still far away, closer to the parking
lot, when I see the figure walking along the shore is growing closer. It’s a
man. His shadow, with its elongated arms and legs, stretches across the beach
until it seems to take on a life of its own. Something about his movements
seems angry and frenetic—instead of the wandering gait of a casual sunset
stroll—and sets off small alarms in my
head. I walk faster, the sand seeming to reach up and grab at my ankles,
slowing my progress.
Donovan’s pacing takes him in the opposite
direction, away from Grace. He’s not paying attention to anything besides his
phone call. The man is now closer to Grace, who seems alone on the beach,
although Donovan is twenty feet away. Donovan squints up into the pink and
orange clouds, raking a hand through his perpetually spiky hair.
The man’s path takes him straight toward
Grace. My heart races. I can’t tell for sure, but it seems like he’s watching
her. He walks at a determined clip, covering ground much faster than me in my
flat, strappy sandals. I lean over in mid-stride and rip a sandal from one foot
without stopping. Then I scoop up the other in one fluid motion.
Still, each step feels like my bare feet
are being sucked into quicksand. I hurry, but feel like I’m moving in slow
motion.
“Grace.” I shout, but my words are carried
away on the wind. I’m breathless from fighting the sand tugging at my feet. The
breeze, which has grown stronger in the past few minutes, whips my hair.
Grace’s brown ringlets bob as she hops her plastic dinosaur around, not
noticing anything else.
Donovan isn’t far from Grace, but now the
man is closer.
At the same moment Donovan turns and sees
the look on my face, the man reaches Grace. His long shadow falls over her
small figure. She looks up with a smile and starts chatting. He leans down. His
hand reaches toward her, his fingers millimeters from her arm. A wave of dread
ripples through me. My feet feel cemented into the sand. My mind screams, but
no words come out of my open mouth. Inside, I’m flailing and thrashing to get
to Grace, but on the outside, I’m struck immobile.
The man reaches down and grasps Grace’s
arm, turning her toward him, and the spell is broken. I’m on wet sand running,
the scream caught in my throat coming out as a birdlike garble. I scoop Grace
up onto one hip and take a step back. I gasp for air, but I can’t breathe. My
heart is going to explode in my chest.
The man looks at me with surprise and for a
split second, there is something in his eyes that sends panic racing up into my
throat, but then the look is gone, as if I imagined it.
“Gosh. I’m so stupid,” he says in a nasally
voice. He wipes his palms on the legs of his jeans, as if he is sweating even
though the temperature is rapidly dipping along with the sun.
Donovan is at my side. “Gabriella, is
everything okay?”
He’s used my full name and he’s looking at
me instead of Grace in my arms. Guilt flicks through me. I’m not acting
irrational or hysterical. A strange man walked up to our daughter and grabbed
her arm. Any mother would react the same, wouldn’t she?
At first glance, the man seems boyish with
his bowl haircut, baggy jeans, and sneakers. Up close, a few crow’s feet shows
he is older. Maybe even my age—thirty. He has feminine pink lips, and piercing
blue eyes, the color of the arctic sea. The collar of his black jacket is pulled
up. His smile is all “gee, golly, shucks,” abashed and embarrassed but doesn’t
reach his eyes. He paws at his jeans with his palms. He’s done that twice now.
He’s nervous.
When he meets my eyes again, I realize that
something about him seems off, something about his eyes, more than just their
intense color. One eye is close to his nose and the other set far apart. It’s
jarring and somehow unsettling to make eye contact.
“I’m so sorry,” he says in that same
stuffed-up sounding voice. “What a knuckle-headed move. I should know better
than to walk up to someone else’s kid like that.”
Donovan grips my arm.
“What’s going on here?” His words are
clipped.
I’m panting, but finally able to catch my
breath. Still, the words will not come.
“Your kid is so darn cute. She looks just
like my little sister used to look. I just wanted to say hi to her and didn’t
even think that was a total bonehead move to walk up to someone else’s kid when
her parents weren’t around.” He gives an odd smile as he says this.
“We
were around.” Donovan says in a monotone, staring the man down.
The man looks down at the sand.
Grace is kicking and trying to get down. My
knuckles are white gripping her.
“Ow, mama, you’re hurting me,” she says and
tosses her curls in irritation.
Donovan shoots a glance our way before
turning his attention back to the man.
“You
live around here?” Donovan asks, seemingly casual, but the muscle in his jaw is
working hard. His dark eyes under thick eyebrows have narrowed and hold a glint
of menace. In a second, it alters him from the man on the cover of the “Sexiest
Bay Area Cops” calendar into something feral and dangerous.
The man meets Donovan’s eyes and for a
second it looks like he is challenging Donovan to dispute his story, but then
he looks down again and digs a sneakered toe into the sand, reinforcing my
impression that he’s a kid not a man.
“Marin. Meeting some friends here in the
city for dinner. Was early so came here to kill some time. I didn’t mean to cause any problems. I just
wanted to say hi to her. Maybe you’re over-reacting a bit.”
Donovan runs a hand through his hair. His
posture relaxes. Instinctively—or luckily—this man has honed in on Donovan’s
Achilles heel. We’ve talked at length about our tendency to be overprotective
parents because of our jobs, me as a crime reporter, and him as a detective.
Donovan has argued we can’t let this affect Grace’s childhood. We need to
protect her, but let her grow up carefree. I agree. But it’s easier said than
done.
We’ve, also, talked about my irrational
fear that something will happen to Grace.
This man may not realize it, but he’s
instantly off the hook with this one simple word—Overreacting.
“Why don’t you go head on out,” Donovan
says, dismissing him.
“My bad, really. Wasn’t using my head. Have
a nice night,” the man says and turns to leave.
I set Grace down and Donovan wraps his arm
around me.
“You okay?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t tell him that it
felt like I was having a heart attack, that I couldn’t breathe or move. A
stranger walked up to my daughter and I stood there, weak, helpless, frozen.
Donovan gives me a look before we both turn
and watch the man’s figure growing smaller. We watch without saying a word. We
stand there until the man turns and heads toward the wooden boardwalk bordering
the road. He never looks back.
Kristi
Belcamino is a writer, photographer, and artist. In her former life as a
newspaper crime reporter in California, she flew over Big Sur in an FA-18 jet
with the Blue Angels, raced a Dodge Viper at Laguna Seca, watched autopsies,
and interviewed serial killers. She is now a journalist based in Minneapolis
and the Gabriella Giovanni mysteries are her first books. Find Kristi on
Facebook www.facebook.com/kristibelcaminowriter or on Twitter @KristiBelcamino
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