Blessed are the Meek Read Online Free PDF Page A

twenty-­five.”
    Her laughter tinkles like when a child giggles infectiously. I can’t help but smile back. “Okay, maybe there are some similarities,” she says. Her seemingly normal behavior in the face of her boyfriend’s death makes me vaguely uneasy
    Annalisa’s body relaxes, and she taps the long ash of her cigarette into a black ceramic ashtray shaped like a nude woman’s torso. The figure is seductively lounging on her side on the banks of what looks like a pond—­the small concave bowl where the ashes go.
    â€œDid you make this,” I say, gesturing with my cigarette.
    â€œDo you like it?” she says, exhaling.
    â€œIt’s fantastic.” I’m trying to decide when to bring up her apparent lack of grief over her boyfriend’s death when she gets up and opens a long cupboard near the kitchen. I see a shelf filled with similar ashtrays. She grabs a glazed red one.
    I fish another cigarette from the pack and light it from the dying cherry on my first one.
    â€œHere. My gift to you.” She hands me the red ashtray. I stick it in my bag.
    It’s generous, but I’m not here to get gifts from grieving—­or nongrieving—­girlfriends. I need information for my story. I’m waiting for the right moment to confront her about her nonchalant attitude regarding her boyfriend’s murder. Maybe she’s a sociopath, who has zero empathy for others. Or maybe she killed him.
    â€œAnnalisa, did Sebastian have any enemies? Can you think of any reason someone wanted him dead?”
    â€œLots of ­people disliked Sebastian. He could be an asshole.”
    I stay silent, hoping she will continue.
    â€œHe even was like that to me.” She says this matter-­of-­factly, with a shrug.
    This second cigarette already tastes better than the first, but the jolt of nicotine feels weaker, making me inhale harder.
    â€œIs that why you don’t seem too broken up about his death?” I look away when I say this, keeping my gaze on the flames in the fireplace. She takes a moment to answer.
    â€œI am sad. But I don’t believe in airing my laundry in public, as they say.” Her lips purse as she exhales. Again, she does the rapid eye blinking and is rewarded with two fat tears this time. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away but let’s them meander down her bronze cheek.
    â€œMy family moved here from Mexico City when I was eight. We may live simply here in this country, but we were royalty in Mexico, friends with el presidente . My father lost everything in gambling debts, and so we had to come here to live with my sister’s family. She married a rich man—­a vintner—­we lived in a house on his property, like a servant’s cottage, you could say. We may not have had much at times, but we’ve always had our pride. My family believes your grief should be expressed in private. It’s not to share with the rest of the world. So, yes, I’m sad. Even self-­centered men don’t deserve to be murdered. Sebastian and I . . .” She falters here and stares into the fire. “We have not been . . . close . . . for a long time. So, in answer to your question, yes, I’m sad. I’m sad to lose someone whom I once cared about a great deal.”
    There is so little emotion there, I can’t decide whether to believe her or not.
    â€œIf all that is true, why did you stay around?”
    â€œCome now, Gabriella, you know that’s not what good Catholic girls do. Especially good Catholic girls living in sin before marriage.”
    I’m pretty sure she’s joking, but I’m a bit confused.
    â€œI’d think your family would throw a party if you moved out.”
    â€œNo. They said I made my bed and had to lie in it. My art doesn’t make any money yet. At least, not enough to survive. I wasn’t willing to give up this lifestyle. What would I