Blessed Are Those Who Mourn by Kristi Belcamino

the murder information close to the chest, because by the time he is done, I only have four sentences written in my notebook. His information basically confirms what I heard on the scanner. When and where a body was found. Appears to be a woman in her twenties. Police are investigating.
    I’m hoping no other reporters make the connection, but that would be too much to ask.
    Black, who is the first reporter called on, brings it up immediately.
    â€œIs there anything linking this body to the one found Saturday?” Black says.
    Before Lieutenant Miller can answer, it becomes a free-­for-­all with reporters blurting out questions.
    â€œDo you think a serial killer is at work?” the Channel 11 reporter asks.
    â€œAre the two women connected in any way?”
    â€œIs this the work of one person?”
    Finally, when everyone shuts up for a second, Lieutenant Miller answers.
    â€œWe are not prepared to release that information at this time.” He scans the crowd for other questions.
    â€œCan you confirm that this woman also has ties to Livermore?” Black asks.
    My heart pounds in my throat. The cold from the ocean breeze shoots up my spine at the same time my heart pounds in my throat. Is this victim from Livermore? And how the fuck did Andy Black find this out before me? I can already hear Kellogg scolding me for letting Black get one up on me. But worse than that, why is a serial killer targeting women from Livermore? I feel like I’m going to vomit, and I lean over, my hands on my knees. Black shoots me a look, and I immediately straighten up, swallowing the bile that rose in my throat.
    â€œWe’ve only just learned about this death an hour ago,” Miller says. “So we are in no position to confirm anything about this victim.”
    â€œWhen will you release the woman’s identity?” Black pushes on.
    Lieutenant Miller’s face is deadpan for what he says next. “As God makes little green apples, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure no reporters receive the victim’s name until her family is notified. So even if I had her name confirmed—­which I do not—­I’m in no hurry to release her name to a reporter who doesn’t have enough respect to wait until a victim’s family is notified before he prints it in the paper.”
    A few reporters nudge each other and whisper. Black doesn’t even have the dignity to blush or look away.
    â€œBut isn’t it true that in the past week and a half, two women have gone missing who are originally from Livermore?” Black asks, undaunted by the scolding.
    â€œThat’s all for now,” Lieutenant Miller says and turns his back on us.
    I’m suddenly chilled and hustle back to the car. Inside the car, my phone buzzes with a text from Donovan who must have seen me leaving.
    Have Grace stay at your mom’s, it says. I won’t be home. Patrol car watching our place tonight.
    Is that necessary? I text back.
    Won’t hurt, he writes.
    One reason we rented our condo is its secure underground parking, private elevator, and state-­of-­the-­art security system, but I won’t mind a cop car outside my door if I’m there alone tonight, because I can tell that Donovan is worried.
    What’s going on? I write back.
    Later.
    Bible verse?
    My phone remains silent. I text the same question three times as Lopez and I drive back to the newsroom.
    Donovan never responds.

 
    Chapter 9
    T HE GRUMPY WATCH commander I reach by phone at the Livermore Police Department says no missing persons reports have been filed in the past two weeks in his city.
    I text Donovan again: Was she also college student? Where ?
    But he doesn’t respond to my text.
    I’ve just filed my murder story when Lopez swings by my desk. He has his camera bag slung over his shoulder and is jingling his car keys.
    â€œHouse fire. Maybe a kid injured.” He presses one finger