Read Online Blessed are the Dead by Kristi Belcamino - Free Book Online

from saying more. I pull together a ten-­inch story, which includes the principal’s quote and rehashes what we already know about Jasmine’s disappearance.
    By the end of the day, I’ve also written about a burglary in Concord and tips to avoid starting a fire in your home with candles. A waste of a day.
    â€œEvans is chomping at the bit for a scoop,” Kellogg says as I leave. “You better dig up something.”
    At first I laugh at the cliché Kellogg uses because Evans truly does remind me of a horse, but then I’m worried. If Kellogg feels the need to warn me, I might be in trouble. I fall into bed worrying about being taken off a story because the editors don’t think I’m doing a good enough job. I’m surprised to realize I want this story.
    I’m the one who should tell Jasmine’s story. I’m the one who can tell it best. I need this story, but it is going to slip through my fingers if I don’t do something. I need a break—­a big one.

 
    Chapter 8
    M Y SALVATION COMES from an unexpected quarter. My phone rings Saturday morning while I’m walking home from playing chess on Market Street. I’ve spent the last few days leaving messages for Roberge, Donovan, and Kelly Baker. Being pesky has finally paid off.
    â€œThis is Jasmine’s mama.” Her voice is slightly hoarse.
    â€œThanks for calling,” I say, scrambling in my bag for a pen and notepad. I ask if we can meet in person. She tells me to be at their apartment in an hour. I’m ecstatic. So far, the reclusive ­couple has not talked to any other reporters. It’s my big break.
    K ELLY B AKER OPENS the door. Up close, she’s tiny. Hipbones show above her baggy pants and her pixielike short blond hair gives her a tomboyish look. From far away, her slight body made her look like an adolescent, but up close, she appears much older than twenty-­seven. I note the scabs on her arms, her acne, and her missing teeth.
    â€œI’m Gabriella.” I stick out my hand, but she just turns and walks down the dark hall into the apartment, apparently expecting me to follow.
    Richard Silva is lying in bed, bare-­chested, when I walk into the depths of the apartment. He sits up bleary-­eyed and lights a cigarette. He has a scruffy beard, and his long dreadlocks are pulled back in a ponytail so they hang down his back.
    I guess there is no formality here. For a moment, I wonder if I’m early. I check my watch. Nope, I’m right on time.
    Silva doesn’t attempt to get up. The drapes are closed. The place reeks of stale cigarettes, and the main room is not much bigger than the ­couple’s queen-­size bed. The studio apartment is crammed with the bed, a TV on a milk crate, and a ripped love seat. Overflowing ashtrays, old beer cans, candles, and clothes are scattered on the floor, bed, and couch.
    â€œThis is where Jasmine slept,” Baker says, and gestures to a little blue sleeping bag on the floor between a window and the bed. Near the top of the sleeping bag, a stuffed monkey is propped near some books and a Barbie doll. This sad little corner sums up her world. On the floor nearby, I spot a piece of school paper with a child’s loopy scrawl.
    I pick it up while Silva goes into the bathroom, and Baker gets a diet soda out of the kitchen. The paper says, “ ‘What I Wish’ by Jasmine Baker.”
    The childish writing says, “I wish I had my own room. I wish I could have special Mommy and Jasmine time where we can read books and color. I wish Mommy didn’t sleep so much. I wish I didn’t make Daddy so mad. I wish we lived in a house. I wish I could go to Disneyland.”
    The teacher put a gold star on top of the paper. I don’t know why, but I quickly stuff it in my bag before Baker returns. Above the sleeping bag, a child’s drawing is taped to the wall. It depicts three figures holding hands. Words in red