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was on trial for murder, I felt a deep sense of personal responsibility, and the desire to expiate my guilt and prove that I was not responsible for what had happened. So I applied for the job at the Grove. I wanted to help her through the aftermath of the murder—help her understand what had happened, work through it—and be free. If you were cynical, you might say I revisited the scene of the crime, so to speak, to cover my tracks. That’s not true. Even though I knew the risks of such an endeavor, the real possibility that I might get caught, that it might end in disaster, I had no choice— because of who I am.
I am a psychotherapist, remember. Alicia needed help—and only I knew how to help her.
I was nervous she might know me, despite my having worn the mask and disguised my voice. But Alicia didn’t seem to recognize me, and I was able to play a new part in her life. Then, that night in Cambridge, I finally understood what I had unwittingly reenacted, the long-forgotten land mine on which I had trodden. Gabriel was the second man to condemn Alicia to death; bringing up this original trauma was more than she could bear—which is why she picked up the gun and visited her long-awaited revenge not upon her father, but upon her husband. As I suspected, the murder had much older, deeper origins than my actions.
But when she lied to me about how Gabriel died, it was obvious Alicia had recognized me and she was testing me. I was forced to take action, to silence Alicia forever. I had Christian take the blame—a poetic justice, I felt. I had no qualms about framing him. Christian had failed Alicia when she needed him the most; he deserved to be punished.
Silencing Alicia wasn’t so easy. Injecting her with morphine was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. That she didn’t die, but is asleep, is better—this way, I can still visit her every day and sit by her bed and hold her hand. I haven’t lost her.
“Are we done?” asked Indira, interrupting my thoughts. “I think so.”
“Good. I have to go, I have a patient at twelve.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“See you at lunch?”
“Yes.”
Indira gave my arm a squeeze and left.
I looked at my watch. I thought about leaving early, going home. I felt exhausted. I was about to
turn off the light and leave when a thought occurred to me and I felt my body stiffen.
The diary. Where was it?
My eyes flickered around the room, neatly packed and boxed up. We’d gone through it all. I had
looked at and considered each and every one of her personal items.
And it wasn’t there.
How could I have been so careless? Indira and her fucking endless inane chatter had distracted
me and made me lose focus.
Where was it? It had to be here. Without the diary there was precious little evidence to convict
Christian. I had to find it.
I searched the room, feeling increasingly frantic. I turned the cardboard boxes upside down,
scattering their contents on the floor. I rummaged through the debris, but it wasn’t there. I tore apart