Roses Are Red

joyful screams of kids. I found Christine huddled over the computer in her office. She is the principal at the Sojourner Truth School. Jannie and Damon are students there.
    “Alex?” Christine said when she saw me at the door. I read the sign on the wall:
Praise loudly, blame softly.
Was Christine able to do that for me? “I’m almost finished for the day. Just give me another minute or two.” At least she didn’t seem angry about the other night with Kyle Craig; she didn’t tell me to leave.
    “I came to walk you home from school. I’ll even carry your books,” I said, and smiled. “That’s all right?”
    “I guess so,” she said, but she didn’t smile back and she still seemed so far away.

Chapter 10
    WHEN CHRISTINE WAS READY TO GO, we locked up the school together, then strolled down School Street toward Fifth. True to my word, I carried Christine’s briefcase filled with what felt like a dozen books. I tried a little joke. “You didn’t say anything about carrying your bowling ball, too.”
    “I told you the books were heavy. I’m a heavy thinker, you know. Actually, I’m kind of glad you came by tonight,” she said.
    “Couldn’t keep myself away.” I told the truth and shamed the devil. I wanted to take Christine’s arm, or at least her hand, but I held back. It seemed strange and wrong to be so close and yet so distant from her. I ached to hold her in my arms.
    “I want to talk to you about something, Alex,” she finally said. She stared into my eyes. I could tell from the look on her face that this probably wasn’t good news I was about to hear.
    “I was hoping that it wouldn’t bother me — your getting on a new murder case. But it does bother me, Alex. It makes me crazy. I worry about you. I worry about the baby. And I worry about my own safety. I can’t help it after what happened in Bermuda. I haven’t been sleeping since I returned to Washington.”
    It tore me apart to hear Christine talk like this. I felt terrible about what had happened to her. She had changed so much, though. There didn’t seem to be anything I could do to make it better, to help her. I’d been trying for months, but nothing worked. I worried that I wouldn’t just lose Christine, but little Alex as well.
    “I remember some of the dreams I’ve had lately. They’re so violent, Alex. And they’re so real. The other night you were chasing the Weasel again, and he killed you. He stood there calmly and shot you again and again. Then he came and killed the baby and me. I woke up screaming.”
    I finally took her hand. “Geoffrey Shafer is dead, Christine,” I said.
    “You don’t know that. Not for sure,”
Christine argued, and pulled her hand away from me. She was angry again.
    We walked along the edge of the Anacostia River in silence. After a while she told me about some of her other dreams. I sensed she didn’t want me to interpret them. Just to listen. The dreams were all violent — people Christine knew and loved were mutilated and murdered.
    Christine finally stopped walking at the corner of Fifth near my house. “Alex, I have to tell you something else. I’ve been going to a psychiatrist, Dr. Belair, in Mitchellville. He’s helping me.”
    Christine continued to stare into my eyes. “I don’t want to see you anymore, Alex. I’ve thought about this for weeks. I’ve talked about it with Dr. Belair. You can’t change my mind, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try.”
    She took her briefcase from me, then she walked away. She didn’t let me say a word, but I would have found it hard to speak, anyway. I had seen the truth in her eyes. She didn’t love me anymore. What made it so much worse was that I still loved her, and of course, I loved our baby boy.

Chapter 11
    I REALLY DIDN’T HAVE A CHOICE, so I threw myself into the bank robbery and multiple murders investigation. The newspapers and TV were still filled with sensational stories about the murdered father, child, and nanny. The picture of three-year-old Tommy Buccieri seemed to be everywhere.
Did the killer want us to feel outrage?
I wondered.
    Sampson and I spent most of one day trying to find Errol and Brianne Parker. The more I followed up on the Parkers with the FBI, the clearer it got that they had probably been robbing small banks in Maryland and Virginia for at least a year. The job at Silver Spring was different. If they had done it, something had happened to change their style; they had become brutal,