“See? Even dead she makes me a better whatever-the-hell it is I am. A less stupid person. A more considerate monster.”

“Whatever the hell I am, I am Me.”

“I don't want to see anyone. I lie in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and nothingness washing over me like a sluggish wave. Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can't even see it, something that's drowning me. I am inadequate and stupid, without worth. I might as well be dead.”

“If I’m right,’ she said, ‘and you have all sorts of juicy information in that dossier of yours, you’ll know that I am an abnormally forgiving person, even of those who have used me and hurt me more than one person deserves to be hurt. But right this second, I am looking forward to the day you rot in hell.”

“I am a better person when I have less on my plate.”

“It's almost as if the way you imagine my dead self says more about you than it says about either the person I was or the whatever I am now.”