Blessed are the Meek Read Free

others to open up to me. But I would never trade my own heartache for a story.
    My own past lingers like a smoky subtext beneath my words as I interview others who are reeling in grief. They look at me and somehow sense the darkness I fight to keep at bay, deep down inside. They sense that we are kindred spirits. And that makes them talk. They tell me their stories while they turn other reporters away.
    Because of this, the bottom drawer in my desk is stuffed with awards stating I got the story and told it better than anyone else. But sometimes I wonder if the price I’ve paid for this ability will cost me my soul. As each year passes, I feel small pieces of me harden. At the same time, rather than shunning the dark underworld—­which would be the healthier way to handle it according to my shrink—­I find myself compulsively immersing myself in that world.
    Right now, that means writing about another dead person. According to public records, Laurent owned a multimillion-­dollar home with a woman named Annalisa Cruz. The owner of the red lace panties? A little digging shows Cruz is a thirty-­three-­year-­old artist known for her sculptures. Most of what I can find online about her is solely about her art, so I just skim the information. Another sheet shows a home number for the ­couple. The answering machine picks up. A sultry female voice with a slight accent asks me to leave a message.
    I leave my name, number, and condolences on the answering machine and hang up. I think about my boyfriend, Sean Donovan, and how I would feel if he had been murdered and a reporter wanted to talk to me. I know my mother didn’t talk to any reporters when my sister died. It’s ironic, but I sure as hell wouldn’t talk to a reporter. At least not that first day.
    But I have to try to get ­people to talk. It’s my job. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. What I’ve found is that most of the time ­people find it cathartic to talk to a stranger about their dead husband, wife, brother, sister, daughter, son, father, or mother. It shows that the death was important to other ­people, too. Pulitzer Prize-­winning police reporter Edna Buchanan once knocked on a door a month after the woman’s son was murdered. Instead of slamming the door in Buchanan’s face, the woman said, “I was wondering when you were going to come.”
    My phone rings. It’s Sara Stephens, a features writer. When I sit up straight, I can see the top of her head across the newsroom.
    â€œHey, saw on the budget you were writing about Sebastian Laurent. Got some info on his girlfriend.
    â€œAnnalisa Cruz is having a gallery opening tomorrow night in the Castro, a trendy, predominately gay neighborhood in the city. I interviewed Cruz last week for a small write-­up about it.”
    â€œWhat’s she like?” I ask.
    â€œShe’s a piece of work,” Stephens says. “Wanted to proofread the news item before it ran and had a hissy fit when I told her we don’t allow that. Kept saying, ‘Do you know who I am? Do you know who my boyfriend is?’ ”
    â€œDid you laugh in her face?”
    â€œI ended up having to fax it over for her approval.”
    My mouth drops open. “Are you kidding me? Why on earth would you do that?”
    â€œColeman.”
    â€œWhoa.” I think for a minute. Why would the publisher get involved in a news brief? He is usually hands off even the biggest stories. “Is he banging her or something?”
    â€œWho knows, but she apparently has the red phone to him because he called me about five minutes after I hung up with her.”

 
    Chapter 3
    M Y SMALL STUDIO apartment is glowing from all the candles Donovan has lit.
    The aroma of a roast and garlic-­mashed potatoes hits me as I open the door. Donovan is busy in my galley kitchen, my pink polka-­dot apron wrapped around his waist. He notices me