Free Blessed Are Those Who Mourn by Kristi Belcamino

this?” I say in a teasing voice, thinking of the black velvet box.
    â€œNo,” she says and is quiet for a second.
    â€œDoes it bother you that we’re not married? We told you that we love you and that we’re a family no matter what, if we are married or not.”
    â€œI know,” she says. “But Sofia and Maria and Lucia and Dominick . . . all my cousins . . . their moms and dads are married.”
    Hearing her little pleading voice makes me vow to examine, at the very least, the resistance I have to getting married.
    My therapist, Marsha, claims it boils down to my fear of abandonment. That for some irrational reason, deep down I believe that getting married will result in me losing Donovan.
    I’m mesmerized by the red taillights of the cars in front of me, remembering what Marsha thinks about my reluctance to tie the knot. It sounds crazy. It is crazy. But I worry that what she says is true. Traffic has grown thick on the Bay Bridge. I should hang up and pay more attention to the road.
    â€œGrace, let’s talk about this more with Daddy. Maybe tonight or this weekend, okay? I know. We can go out to breakfast at Max’s Opera Plaza and have banana nut pancakes and hot chocolate and talk about it on Saturday morning, okay?”
    â€œOkay.” Her voice is quieter than usual.
    After I hang up, I feel a mixture of sadness and guilt. I’m not sure why the idea of getting married freaks me out so much. But it does. It has ever since Donovan first brought it up years ago.
    W HEN I PULL onto Grant Avenue in North Beach, I see the squad car waiting in front of our condo. I pull up opposite and roll down my window.
    â€œI’m Gabriella Giovanni. Thanks for waiting for me,” I say. I don’t recognize the cop.
    â€œNo problem. Donovan did me a solid a few years back. Plus, it’s dead in the city tonight. If something big goes down, I’ll have to bail, though.”
    â€œYou’re staying out here all night?”
    â€œI work until five. Got some coffee, and I’m listening to the classical music station.”
    â€œCan I bring you something? Something to eat?”
    He holds up an empty fast-­food bag and pats his belly. “I’m good to go. You go on in and get a good night’s sleep.”
    â€œThanks.” I wonder what he’ll do if he has to go to the bathroom, but I decide not to go there. Cops must have some plan for when they are on stakeout. I hit the garage door opener and pull into the private garage under our condo. Like always, I don’t get out of the car until I see the garage door close behind me.
    I feel a little sheepish having a cop on Code 5 stakeout outside our condo all night, but also a bit relieved after what Donovan told me about the Bible verse. I don’t think I have anything to be worried about, but it’s better to be safe.
    Holding the kubaton that hangs from my key ring, I head toward the elevator, punching in our access code. The small, sharp, pen-­sized metal weapon can disable someone much bigger than me if I jab him in the right spot.
    Upstairs, the timers we use mean the condo is lit and the soft crooning of Bono singing U2’s “Sometimes You Can’t Make it On Your Own” is piping from the sound system. I scoop up a meowing Dusty and head straight to the master bathroom. I lock the door behind us, then unlock the gun safe. Grabbing one of Donovan’s Kel-­Tec P-­11 semiautomatic pistols, I unlock the bedroom door and quietly go from room to room, heart pounding, as I check the rest of the condo. Once I’m convinced the place is empty, I change into a tank top and sweatpants, pour myself a double shot of Absolut, and crank up the stereo, which is now playing U2’s “Vertigo.”
    I know I have nothing to worry about, but even the remote possibility that Anderson is back has me spooked.
    Lounging on the couch with my feet up on the