Page 54 of The Silent Patient

I hesitated. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But I didn’t want to upset him further. I think I would have agreed to anything—just to get him out of there. So I said yes.

10:30P.M.

When Gabriel got home, I talked to him about what happened with Jean-Felix. He said he never understood our friendship anyway. He said Jean-Felix is creepy and doesn’t like the way he looks at me.

“And how is that?”

“Like he owns you or something. I think you should leave the gallery now—before the show.”

“I can’t do that—it’s too late. I don’t want him to hate me. You don’t how vindictive he can be.”

“It sounds like you’re afraid of him.”

“I’m not. It’s just easier this way—to pull away gradually.”

“The sooner the better. He’s in love with you. You know that, don’t you?”

I didn’t argue—but Gabriel is wrong. Jean-Felix isn’t in love with me. He’s more attached to my paintings than he is to me. Which is another reason to get away from him. Jean-Felix doesn’t care about me at all. Gabriel was right about one thing, though.

I am afraid of him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I FOUND DIOMEDES IN HIS OFFICE. He was sitting on a stool, in front of his harp. It had a large and ornate wooden frame, with a shower of golden strings.

“That’s a beautiful object,” I said.

Diomedes nodded. “And very difficult to play.” He demonstrated, sweeping his fingers lovingly along the strings. A cascading scale resounded through the room. “Would you like to try?”

I smiled—and shook my head.

He laughed. “I keep asking, you see, in the hope you will change your mind. I’m nothing if not persistent.”

“I’m not very musical. I was told so in no uncertain terms by my music teacher at school.”

“Like therapy, music is about a relationship, entirely dependent on the teacher you choose.”

“No doubt that’s true.”

He glanced out the window and nodded at the darkening sky. “Those clouds, they have snow in them.”

“It looks like rain clouds to me.”

“No, it’s snow. Trust me, I come from a long line of Greek shepherds. It will be snowing tonight.”

Diomedes gave the clouds a last hopeful look, then turned back to me. “What can I do for you, Theo?”

“It’s this.”

I slid the copy of the play across the desk. He peered at it.

“What is it?”

“A tragedy by Euripides.”

“I can see that. Why are you showing it to me?”

“Well, it’s theAlcestis—the title Alicia gave her self-portrait, painted after Gabriel’s murder.”

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