Book collector

Three years had passed since the night Daniel killed Juliana, and his voice on the phone sounded like someone else's... as if nothing had happened. He called to invite me to lunch, as if lunch with him still meant going to a carelessly chosen restaurant, or to his parents' living room. [...] Daniel used to spend his entire day, day after day, week after week, in his room, trying to decipher marginal notes scribbled in volumes no one read anymore. He would eat his breakfast and lunch in his pajamas, his legs stretched out on the desk, a magnifying glass in his left hand, a look of utter astonishment on his face. Back then, there was no need to enter that other place... that terrifying place, where they were holding him, or rather, where he was holding himself captive to escape a larger prison.