“I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you at the Sojourner Truth School,” I whispered, so that only she could hear me. “Except that when I saw you the first time, I had no way of knowing how incredibly special you are on the inside. How wise, how good. I didn’t know that I could feel the way I do — whole and complete — whenever I’m with you. I would do anything for you. Or just to be with you for one more moment.”

I stopped for the briefest pause and took a deep breath. She held my eyes, didn’t pull away.

“I love you so much, and I always will. Will you marry me, Christine?”

She continued to look into my eyes, and I saw such warmth and love, but also humility, which is always a part of who Christine is. It was almost as if she couldn’t imagine my loving her.

“Yes, I will. Oh, Alex, I shouldn’t have waited until tonight. But this is so perfect, so special, I’m almost glad I did. Yes, I will be your wife.”

I took out an antique engagement ring and gently slid it onto Christine’s finger. The ring had been my mother’s, and I’d kept it since she died, when I was nine. The exact history of the ring was unclear, except that it went back at least four generations in the Cross family and was my one and only heirloom.

We kissed in the glorious Children’s Chapel of the National Cathedral, and it was the best moment of my life, never to be forgotten, never to be diminished in any way.

Yes, I will be your wife.

Chapter 20

TEN DAYS HAD PASSED without another fantasy murder, but now a powerful mood swing had taken hold of Geoffrey Shafer, and he let himself go with the flow.

He was flying high as a kite — hyper, manic, bipolar, whatever the doctors wanted to call his condition. He’d already taken Ativan, Librium, Valium, and Depakote, but the drugs seemed only to fuel his jets.

That night at around six he pulled the black Jaguar out of the lot on the north side of the embassy, passing by the larger-than-life Winston Churchill statue with its stubby right hand raised in V for Victory, its left hand holding his trademark cigar.

Eric Clapton played guitar loudly on the car’s CD. He turned up the volume higher, slapping his hands hard on the steering wheel, feeling the rhythm, the beat, the primal urge.

Shafer turned onto Massachusetts Avenue and then stopped at a Starbucks. He hurried in and fixed up three coffees his way. Black as his heart, with six sugars. Mmm, hmmm. As usual, he had nearly finished the first before he got out the door.