An unnamed something that I occasionally write in. As if I should write in it every day, and I don’t want to-if it becomes a chore, I’ll never keep it up. Calling it a “journal” sounds too academic, somehow. Anne Frank kept a diary-not someone like me. It feels a little pretentious to call it a diary. I don’t even know what to call it-this thing I’m writing. Maybe I do know and just don’t want to admit it to myself. His determination to get her to talk and unravel the mystery of why she shot her husband takes him down a twisting path into his own motivations-a search for the truth that threatens to consume him. Theo Faber is a criminal psychotherapist who has waited a long time for the opportunity to work with Alicia. The price of her art skyrockets, and she, the silent patient, is hidden away from the tabloids and spotlight at the Grove, a secure forensic unit in North London. One evening her husband Gabriel returns home late from a fashion shoot, and Alicia shoots him five times in the face, and then never speaks another word.Īlicia’s refusal to talk, or give any kind of explanation, turns a domestic tragedy into something far grander, a mystery that captures the public imagination and casts Alicia into notoriety. A famous painter married to an in-demand fashion photographer, she lives in a grand house with big windows overlooking a park in one of London’s most desirable areas. Alicia Berenson’s life is seemingly perfect.
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