Blessed are the Meek by Kristi Belcamino Page B

from Adam’s death? She practically gave motive for Sebastian’s death at her house, showing me how she didn’t want to give up her luxurious lifestyle. My thoughts are interrupted by the reporter’s voice on the TV.
    â€œWe’ll stay on top of this story and let you know what else we find out. The police are holding a press conference at the Napa house at ten, and we’ll be sure to get all the details for our viewers.”
    I stare up at the TV hanging from the ceiling, frozen, unable to move.
    â€œUntil then,” the anchor says, “we’ll be cutting to national news. Our correspondent is at the White House interviewing the president about the death of San Francisco Mayor Adam Grant. As many ­people know, this is not only a sad day for San Francisco, but it is a sad day for the Republican Party. Mayor Adam Grant has long been thought of as the Republican Party’s next hopeful. He’s even been dubbed “President-­in-­Training.” It’s going to be a political blow for them to lose this promising candidate.”
    Small groups of reporters are gathering in front of the big-­screen TV that takes up one wall over by the photo department. When the news cuts to something about the Bay Bridge, I make my way over to my desk, trying to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. My phone rings again.
    â€œHoly shit!” It’s Nicole, the courts reporter for the newspaper, based in our Martinez office. She’s my best friend.
    â€œYeah.” My voice sounds like it is coming from a long way away.
    â€œI can’t believe the mayor of San Francisco was whacked! It’s on every station, CNN, BBC, everywhere. The judge called a recess because nobody in the courtroom would shut up. He kept banging his gavel, and ­people kept talking. I’m sure he’s back there in chambers watching it himself. Oh, gotta go, it’s Phil on my other line.”
    Phil is her editor. She hangs up before I can tell her what happened—­that police just questioned me. When I place the phone back in its cradle, her words finally sink in. She’s right. This story is huge. International news. And I was there. Right at the heart of this huge story. I can’t help it, but as a reporter, it sends a thrill through me. At the same time, I’m chilled that the charismatic man who rubbed my arm yesterday is now dead. I barely knew him but was intrigued by him. It stung to hear Nicole use the word “whacked,” but that’s what we do in this business—­gallows humor, I guess. Something that helps us deal with the horrors we cover, making light of death at times, using words like “offed” and “decomp” and “stiffs” like we aren’t talking about someone’s husband or son or father. Or sister.
    I remember with a jolt that the cops actually think I might be involved. I shake it off. I must have imagined the way that one redheaded cop looked at me. Me? A suspect? That’s just plain crazy and a waste of time. They must be crossing their t’s and dotting their i’s. But why did they tell me to stay in town? Maybe they say that to everyone they talk to on a case? I’m not sure. That’s something I should ask Donovan.
    My heart sinks, realizing we are still in a tiff. He hasn’t called since I saw him at Grant’s house. I rummage through my bag until I find my cell phone. I haven’t missed any calls. He was so intent on defending Annalisa Cruz. What does he think now? Can he defend her now?
    Maybe the police will tell us more at the press conference. I look at the clock—­it’s only eight thirty. I can make it to the press conference in Napa if I speed. I grab my bag, a new notebook, and my jacket before someone touches my elbow. Kellogg.
    â€œGabriella, you can’t cover this one.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou were there. You can’t cover this. Especially since