Free Blessed are the Dead by Kristi Belcamino Page B

anything. Even Mama and Papa say that about me. They’re proud I’m so strong and brave. I don’t want them to know that sometimes I do get scared.”
    â€œIt’s okay to be scared, Sofia.”
    â€œNo, no it’s not.” She says it firmly and stares me down.
    â€œOkay, well then let’s talk about the bad guy.”
    We spend the next few minutes talking about how most ­people in the world are good and that really there are only a few bad ­people. I also help her devise a plan for what she would do if a bad guy did open the door when she was trick-­or-­treating—­run away and get an adult.
    At the end, she stands up and gives me a super tight hug.
    â€œThanks. I knew you would tell me what to do to feel better.” Then she whispers to me. “I think you’re the bravest person I know. I want to be just like you when I grow up.”
    I smile as she skips away. I’m not nearly as brave as I let her think, but if it helps her overcome her fears, I will pretend to be. I feel guilty that I lied to her. I told her most of the ­people in the world are good. But I don’t believe that anymore.
    The rest of the day, I find myself watching Sofia. She looks so much like Caterina that it almost hurts to look at her. But she’s not as gentle as my sister was. My sister was quiet and shy and afraid to speak up to anybody. Not my niece. Sofia has a fierce streak. As she says, she’s not afraid of much. I can see it in her eyes. She has a knowing spark that makes me think she’s an old soul and a survivor.
    The other little kids follow her around. She’s the ringleader. What she says goes. As I watch her today, a sob that contains both happiness and grief catches in my throat. My mother sees my gaze and clamps her hand over her mouth, blinking back her tears. My mother is the one who taught me not to cry. Maybe she didn’t mean to do that, but I’ve watched her my entire life. I’ve learned well.
    Later, back home and drifting off to sleep, I’m filled with gratitude for my family. Spending time with them was just what I needed. It was good for my soul.
    But I’m going to pay for my brief respite.

 
    Chapter 10
    I SIT STRAIGHT up in bed in a panic, knowing something is wrong. The glowing red numbers on my clock say 4:10 A.M .
    Then, seeing my phone in its charger on my nightstand, I realize what I’ve done. It has been off since Mass yesterday. My second mistake was getting home late and tumbling into bed without checking my phone for messages or watching the news.
    But it’s too late. Fumbling for my phone, I turn it on. Six missed calls. Shit. Listening to them, I rush to grab the newspaper outside my door. The giant headline above the fold causes me to drop my phone and sink onto my bed.
    â€œPolice Rescue Rosarito Girl, 9, from Kidnapper: 43-­year-­old Man Arrested.”
    I start to hyperventilate, thinking they have found Jasmine alive. But it’s another little girl. I cringe when I read the byline on the story—­May DuPont. Her story says that the little girl was walking to a convenience store in downtown Rosarito late Sunday night when the kidnapper grabbed her and forced her into his car. Two dockworkers on their way to work saw the kidnapping and called 911 with a description of the car. Fifteen minutes later, police found the car parked in a liquor-­store parking lot a few blocks away.
    They surrounded the car but it was empty. A clerk ran outside the store and shouted that a man had just run out of the back door of his store. Police arrested a man a few blocks away who fit the description the clerk gave the cops—­a white man with blond hair in his forties. Jack Dean Johnson. He’s a convicted kidnapper.
    Inside the vehicle, police found a piece of rope, a pair of little girl’s underwear, a plastic tiara, a small stuffed kitten, an open can of orange soda, and a bag of