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Christian shrugged. “If you like. That’s not what I would call it.”
“What would you call it?”
“It was suicidal behavior, but I don’t believe she intended to die. She was too narcissistic to ever
really want to hurt herself. She took an overdose, more for show than anything else. She was ‘communicating’ her distress to Gabriel—she was always trying to get his attention, poor bastard. If I hadn’t had to respect her confidentiality, I’d have warned him to get the hell out.”
“How unfortunate for him that you’re such an ethical man.”
Christian winced. “Theo, I know you’re a very empathetic man—that’s what makes you such a good therapist—but you’re wasting your time with Alicia Berenson. Even before the murder, she had precious little capacity for introspection or mentalizing or whatever you want to call it. She was entirely consumed with herself and her art. All the empathy you have for her, all the kindness—she isn’t capable of giving it back. She’s a lost cause. A total bitch.”
Christian said this scornfully—and with absolutely no detectable empathy for such a damaged woman. For a second, I wondered if perhaps Christian was borderline, not Alicia. That would make a lot more sense.
I stood up. “I’m going to see Alicia. I need some answers.”
“From Alicia?” Christian looked startled. “And how do you intend to get them?” “By asking her.”
I walked out.