Cross

it?”
    “What do you mean, sweetheart? I’m not sure that I follow you,” I said to Damon.
    “We remind you of her, don’t we? We remind you of Mom every day; every morning when you see us, you remember that she’s not here. Isn’t that right?”
    I shook my head. “Maybe there’s some little bit of truth in that. But you remind me in a good way, the best way. Trust me on that. It’s all good.”
    They waited for me to talk some more, and they didn’t take their eyes off me, as if I might suddenly run away on them.
    “Lots of changes are happening in our lives,” I said. “We have Ali here now. Nana’s getting older. I’m seeing patients again.”
    “You like it?” Damon asked. “Being a psychologist?”
    “I do. So far.”
    “
So far.
That’s so
you,
Daddy,” said Jannie.
    I snorted out a laugh, but I didn’t go fishing for a compliment about what Jannie had said. Not that I was completely averse to compliments, but there was a time for everything, and this wasn’t it. I remember that when I’d read Bill Clinton’s autobiography, I couldn’t help thinking that when he was confessing to the hurt he’d caused his wife and daughter, he couldn’t seem to resist looking for forgiveness too, and even hugs from the reader. He just couldn’t resist—maybe because his need for love is so great. And maybe that’s where his empathy and compassion come from.
    Then I finally did the hardest thing—I told Jannie and Damon what had happened to Maria. I told my children the truth as I knew it. I shared most of the details of Maria’s death, her murder, and I told them that I had seen it happen, been with her when she died, felt her last breath on this earth, heard her last words.
    When I was done, when I couldn’t talk anymore, Jannie whispered, “Watch the river, how it flows, Daddy. The river is truth.”
    That had been my mantra for the kids when they were little and Maria wasn’t around. I’d walk them by the Anacostia River or the Potomac and make them look at it, the water, and say, “Watch the river . . . the river is truth.”
    Or at least as close as we’ll ever get to it.

Chapter 105
    I WAS FEELING STRANGELY emotional and vulnerable, and I guess, maybe, alive these days.
    It was both a good and a bad thing.
    I had breakfast with Nana Mama at around five thirty or so almost every morning. Then I jogged to my office, changed clothes, and started my sessions as early as six thirty.
    Kim Stafford was my first patient on Mondays and Thursdays. It was always a hard thing to keep personal feelings out of the sessions, at least for me, or maybe I was just out of practice. On the other hand, some of my colleagues had always struck me as too clinical, too reserved and distant. What was any patient, any human being, supposed to make of that?
Oh, it’s okay if I have the affect of a turnip; I’m a therapist.
    I needed to do this my way, with warmth at times, with lots of feeling and compassion rather than empathy; I needed to break the rules, to be unorthodox. Like confronting Jason Stemple at his station house and trying to punch that scum’s lights out. That’s what I call
professional.
    I had a break in my schedule until noon, so I decided to check in with Monnie Donnelley at Quantico. She was doing some research on a theory of mine about the Butcher. I hadn’t said much more than hello, when Monnie interrupted. “I have something for you, Alex. I think you’re going to like this. It’s your idea anyway, your theory.”
    Monnie then told me that she’d used my notes and tracked down news about Sullivan’s wife through a mob soldier who was in the Witness Protection Program and now living in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
    “I followed the trail you set up, and you were right on. It led me to a guy who was at Sullivan’s wedding, which was small, as you might expect. The pal from Brooklyn you told me about, Anthony Mullino, he was there. Apparently, Sullivan didn’t want many people to know about his private life. His own mother wasn’t invited, and his father was dead, as you know.”
    “Yeah, killed by his son and a couple of pals. What did you find out about Sullivan’s wife?”
    “Well, it’s interesting stuff, not what you’d expect, either. She’s originally from Colts Neck, New Jersey, and she was a first-grade teacher before she met Sullivan. How about that? Salvatore Pistelli, the Witness Protection guy, said she was a sweet girl. Said Sullivan was looking for a