Blessed Are Those Who Mourn by Kristi Belcamino Page A

against the earbud in his ear. The cord trails down to where a scanner is clipped to his belt. “Three-­alarm.”
    Usually most house fires are one or two alarms. Three alarms means they’ve called for additional firefighting vehicles and firefighters.
    Lopez nods. “They’ve got two ambulances on standby. Sounds like they’re searching for a kid inside one of the houses.”
    I close my eyes for a second. It used to be so easy to write about death. Opening my eyes, I stare at the framed photos on my desk. Grace’s little face, nearly identical to Caterina’s picture beside her. The only difference is Grace has dark brown curls and light freckles, while Cat’s skin was olive and her hair blue black. But their eyes are exactly the same, deep, knowing dark pools glinting with life and merriment.
    A kid injured in a fire is nothing new for me. But it was easier before I became a mother. While it was always difficult to write about a child’s death, now the very idea makes my heart pound and my stomach somersault.
    Lopez waits. Not saying a word.
    â€œLet’s do this,” I say, standing and grabbing my bag and a notebook.
    As soon as we get within two blocks of the house fire, we look for a parking spot. The street is blocked off with ambulances, fire trucks, trucks from the gas company, and TV vans. And this is around the corner from the actual fire. Huge, billowing streams of smoke show us where the fire is.
    Lopez and I park and make our way around huge fire hoses snaking across the wet streets. At least three fire trucks are pulled up right in front of two houses that still have flames shooting out of them. Another four trucks are across the street. We split up, Lopez hurrying ahead to get shots of the flames and me scanning the crowd for someone who might be able to tell me something.
    Â­People stand in clusters, talking and watching the fire consume the two houses. A firefighter walks a few feet in front of me. I hurry to his side and hold out my press pass, which is on a chain around my neck.
    â€œExcuse me, I’m with the Bay Herald . Can you let your public information officer know I’m here?”
    He casts a quick glance at me. “Sure. Wait here on the corner.”
    As he walks away, I make a face. I’m not staying a block away from the fire when the rest of the world is in for the close-­up.
    I’m heading closer to the fire when a burly man with a badge on his helmet appears before me.
    â€œLooking for me?” I say with a smile. It’s Rick Mason, the public information officer for the fire department. He is decked out in fire gear, but his ready grin is still there under his bushy moustache.
    â€œSorry I wasn’t,” he says, smiling even bigger. “Didn’t know you were here.”
    Sort of what I figured. And why I didn’t wait on that corner.
    â€œWhat can you tell me?” I ask.
    â€œStill sorting it all out,” he says. “Why don’t you wait across the street from the fire, there’s another reporter there, someone from the weekly paper. I’ll come over when I know more.”
    I’m about to ask him about the kid I heard about on the scanner when his radio crackles. He speaks into it and hurries off.
    A reporter from the weekly? They don’t usually cover much in this area. I remember my days on a weekly, busting my butt and wondering if I’d ever get a break at a big daily.
    When I cross the street, I see a skinny guy with sideburns standing there, hands dug deep into his pockets.
    â€œHey, you with the weekly?”
    He looks up in surprise.
    â€œI’m Gabriella. With the Bay Herald . Been here long?”
    He sticks out a hand. “Michael Dillman with the Pleasant Valley Weekly. I live right around the corner. I heard this on the scanner and walked over.”
    â€œWhat do you know?”
    â€œNot much.” The kid digs his hands even deeper into his