The Sanatorium(104)

“We’ve got to find him. Before he gets to anyone else.”





85





When Elin walks into the lounge, it’s brighter, but only barely—the windows reveal a silvery milkiness to the sky outside that makes it seem more like dawn than late morning.

Two small groups are gathered at the tables next to the bar, but no one’s talking. They’re on their phones or sipping their drinks.

Elin notices Cecile at the first table; her hands are clasped around a small cup of coffee.

As Elin walks over, nerves dance in her stomach: How is Cecile going to react when I tell her about Lucas?

Cecile looks up. Her face looks pinched, drawn. “How’s Will?”

“He’s stable for now.”

“Good.”

Elin lowers her voice. “Cecile, we need to talk alone.”

“Okay.” Cecile stands up, scraping back her chair. They move to a table on the other side of the room, out of earshot of the groups behind.

Taking a seat, Elin pulls at her shirt. It’s hot. The fire, only a few feet away, is roaring in the hearth.

In fits and starts, she recounts what’s happened, pulled short by the conflicting expressions on Cecile’s face—confusion, disbelief, and something else, something unexpected—a sense of resignation.

It’s as if something’s come loose, cut adrift in her features.

Had she suspected all along?

“You honestly think Lucas is part of this?” Cecile says when Elin finishes. Her eyes look like shadows, hollowed out.

Elin takes a long breath. “He ran, Cecile. Tried to lock me in. There might be another explanation, but I’m not sure what it would be.”

Cecile’s silent for a moment, her gaze passing over the glass box suspended from the ceiling only a few feet away. Elin’s seen it before; it contains an old manometer made from glass and wood. The note inside explains it was used to measure air pressure when the surgeon collapsed the tuberculosis patient’s lungs.

Seeing it now, after what she’s discovered, Elin feels an absolute revulsion: Lucas knowingly incorporated this into the design. Made it a feature.

“So what do you want to do?” Cecile says finally. In the mirror behind the bar, her reflection seems to distort, her heavy features elongating.

“Two things. We need to keep everyone together, make sure no one leaves this room. Then we need to find Lucas.”

“He could be anywhere. The hotel’s huge, and it’s possible, isn’t it, that there’s another hidden space like the tunnel?”

“Yes, but if he’s planning on doing something else soon, it’s more likely he’s somewhere in the main building.”

Cecile gives a single, abrupt nod, eyes hardening. “Let’s start with his office.”



* * *



? ? ?

The space is unrecognizable; the pristine, designer perfection destroyed.

Lucas’s desk is in disarray: papers littered across the sleek wooden surface, several notebooks lying on the floor. Drawers are wrenched open, his chair pushed away from the desk.

It’s like it’s been raided. A burglary.

A chill moves through Elin, a sickening lurch of realization: He’s been back here. Looking for something.

She goes over to his desk, begins leafing through the discarded papers. Mainly business documents, copies of presentations.

Among a stack of files, her eyes alight on something familiar.

The letters—the threatening, anonymous notes Lucas had shown her. The letters she now knows were from Laure.

There’s what looks to be over a dozen of them, all different. Elin’s hands are clumsy as she gathers them into a loose pile.

He’d mentioned only three, hadn’t he?

Had this been going on longer than he said? If so, it’s possible that these might have had a part to play in triggering the first murder. If he’d felt under threat . . .

“What is it?” Cecile turns toward the desk.

“I’ve found some more letters . . . the ones Laure sent him.”

She frowns. “Why would he be looking for those?”

“I don’t know.” Shaking her head, Elin looks at them again, and this time something catches, tugging at her consciousness.

Something about the room doesn’t look right.

It takes her a moment to work out what it is: the cupboards.

They’re the only thing that has been left untouched. There’s a long line of them, only a few feet above floor level.

A small locking mechanism sits halfway up each door.

Elin walks over, crouching beside them to examine the lock. “Do you have a key to these?”

“No. He’s probably got it on him.”

Standing back up, Elin casts her eyes around the room, looking for something sturdy enough to break the lock.

There’s a large glass paperweight on the corner of Lucas’s desk. Grabbing it, she drops to her knees. Positioning the paperweight above the lock on the first and largest cupboard, she slams it down hard against the mechanism.

It doesn’t work—her palms, damp, sweaty, lose their grip on the glass, and it skims over the surface before thudding to the floor.

She wipes her palms on her trousers, tries again. This time she hits the lock dead in the center: it gives way with a loud click.