Blessed are the Meek by Kristi Belcamino

silence.
    I freeze, pressing my ear against the wall, ready to bolt and hide in the closet. But the only sound I hear is the squeaking of bedsprings. I grab my clothes and sneak out to my car.

 
    Chapter 13
    T HE NEXT MORNING, I’m the first reporter in the metro section. Kellogg’s computer is on, so he must be here somewhere. My desk phone rings across the room, and I hurry toward it. As I pick up my phone, something catches my eye on the small television set suspended from the ceiling above my desk. Police cars and news vans in front of a familiar house—­Adam Grant’s Napa Valley home. Seeing the house sends a small shock through me.
    The sound is muted. Every TV in the newsroom shows the same thing. Even the big screen, tuned to CNN, is broadcasting aerial footage of Grant’s house.
    The phone is up to my ear, but I forget to say anything. I’m reading the words scrolling across the bottom of the smaller TV hanging above the cop reporter’s station. “Body found in Mayor Grant’s home . . . police are scheduled to hold a press conference . . .”
    It doesn’t say if it was a man or woman. Annalisa? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Maybe she was telling the truth. I think of the woman in the black bikini who disappeared right before Annalisa and Grant went into the house. And I heard Annalisa practically beg the mayor not to make her go back outside. She’d seen the killer, hadn’t she?
    I distantly register a voice calling my name from the phone at my ear. In the background, I hear the crackle of the police scanners on the desk nearby. I focus on the voice on the phone, which is becoming shrill. “Hello? Is anyone there? Gabriella?” It’s the receptionist at the front desk.
    â€œSorry. I’m here.”
    â€œThere are some police officers here to see you.”
    At her words, my face feels tingly, and a ripple of dread rolls across my scalp.

 
    Chapter 14
    M Y VOICE IS wobbly and my hands are shaking as I lead the officers into the big conference room off the reception area. They introduce themselves. Harry Gold, an older man with a stain on his checked blazer and his belt pulled up over his belly, is a detective from Napa. Jack Sullivan, a wiry man with thick lips and close-­cropped red hair, is a San Francisco Police Department investigator.
    â€œIs this about Adam Grant’s house?” I’m so nervous I spit out the words without thinking. They are here because they knew I was at his house yesterday. How did they know?
    â€œWho’s dead? What’s going on?” I ask.
    â€œThat’s what we’re trying to figure out,” the redheaded cop says as he pulls out a chair at the big conference table. “Why don’t you start by telling us about your visit there yesterday.”
    Of course, I think. They want my help. I sink into a chair across from him.
    â€œCan you tell me who . . . the body is?”
    â€œWe’ll get to that,” the older detective from Napa takes out a small pocketknife and starts cleaning under his nails. “First, tell us about your visit yesterday.”
    I briefly summarize how I met Grant at the press dinner and was invited to his party. I get more detailed when I start talking about my time at his house. I stammer when I get to the part about eavesdropping. The redheaded detective who is leaning forward with his elbows on the table and his fingers steepled in the “power position” gives the other cop a look. It’s subtle, but I realize my hesitation is sending up a red flag with him. At the same time, I realize they aren’t talking to me because they think I’m on their side. I try to explain.
    â€œI was trying to find out something about Annalisa Cruz and Adam Grant and maybe”—­I decide just to spill it—­“figure out whether they had anything to do with Sebastian Laurent’s death—­the guy found dead