The Sanatorium(106)

“Lucas got rid of Daniel’s body. Got it away from the scene.”

“You didn’t ask what he did with him?” Elin’s voice is still accusing, brittle.

“No.” Cecile’s face briefly hardens. “I didn’t want to know. I’d done my part. Promised to keep his secret.”

“But what about the scene, where he’d been murdered? Surely the police searched it when Daniel was reported missing. From what you’ve described, there would have been blood, evidence.”

“Lucas cleaned it up, made it look like it had never happened. Moved furniture about, shifted some of the filth. It was easy enough. The place was a mess to begin with.” She looks down at her hands. “The police weren’t very thorough. Their main theory at that time was that he’d gone of his own accord.”

“But what about the building manager who found Daniel? Surely he’d have wanted to go to the police?”

“Lucas bribed him.” Cecile’s voice sounds hollow, tinny. “Paid him a lot of money in the hope he’d go away. And he did.”

Elin tries to shore up her thoughts. “So did you talk to Lucas after Adele’s body was found? Discuss the similarities?”

“Yes, but he said if we told you about what happened to Daniel, we’d be arrested. Concealing a body, not reporting it, hiding the evidence.” Cecile’s voice is small, her shoulders rounded. It makes her look somehow diminished. “Lucas said he hoped that we’d find whoever was doing this, that no one would connect Adele’s case to Daniel. I never thought he’d be the one . . .” Her voice splinters.

Elin looks at her, suddenly weary. How many more lies would emerge? People only telling her half the story . . . She’s been at a disadvantage this whole time.

Cecile’s quiet for a moment before she speaks again. “You know, Lucas said something when he finally came out of the hospital that’s always stuck with me. He said he’d had enough of being helpless, people telling him what to do.” She stops, stumbling over her words. “He said, ‘From now on, I’m going to do what I want. To hell with anyone who stands in my way.’”

Elin watches the snow dance against the glass.

He got his wish. No one could call him helpless now.

She turns back to Cecile. “I’m going to start searching room to room. Can you go back to the lounge, check on everyone?”

“You don’t want me to come with you?”

“No. If he sees more than one person, he might get spooked. We’ve got to play this carefully.”

“If you’re sure . . .” Cecile walks toward the door. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” Elin replies, and as she puts the mask back in the cupboard and picks up her bag, she realizes Cecile’s words about what Lucas had said are still rolling about in her mind:

From now on, I’m going to do what I want. To hell with anyone who stands in my way.

Something shifts deep in her brain, a cog turning. Stopping, she stares at the floor, trying to process it.

Could it be right?

Or is her mind exhausted, overworked, imagining things? A scratch across vinyl—her brain jumping to the wrong place, finding the wrong conclusion.

There’s one way to check: look for the evidence. Something concrete, irrefutable.

Reaching for her phone, she finds the site she needs in seconds. Her hands are clammy, her finger leaving damp prints on the screen as she scrolls, trying to find the relevant section.

Too fast—she’s gone too far.

She forces herself to slow down and scroll carefully back up.

The words leap from the screen.

My theory: it’s right.

It’s then, as she looks, that something else pulls into her consciousness. Something so subtle it might never have found her unless she’d made the other connection.

Elin walks back over to the cupboard and opens the door. Kneeling down, she pulls out the mask, brings it close to her face. She breathes in, a deep, forensic inhalation. The mask slips down onto her lap.

I’m right. I’m right.

Things are finally coming together. Little pieces coalescing: fragments of conversation, body language.

There’s no doubt now.

She just hopes she’s not too late.

In the distance a door slams. A dull, muted thud.

Elin feels sick, her body flooded with adrenaline.

Time feels compressed, folded down to nothing. How long will it take? Three minutes? Four?

She breaks into a run.





87





The sliding doors slowly part, spitting her out into a mass of whirling snow.

Elin steps forward onto the decking, breathing heavily: she hasn’t stopped running since leaving Lucas’s office.

Steadying herself, she scans the area in front of her, squinting through the snow. The pool cover is retracted, the water lurid, obscenely bright above the underwater spotlights. Steam is snaking into the air, but as it ebbs and flows, she can make out a figure by the main pool.

Lucas. She was right. She knew if he wasn’t by the indoor pool, he’d be here.

But he’s not alone. Everything she’s assumed—it’s true.

She starts jogging toward him, kicking through the snow. Snowflakes are coming at her face, her eyes like tiny, feathered bullets. Adrenaline is spiking, making her clumsy, her feet giving way on the soft powder. She has to consciously shift her weight backward to prevent herself from slipping.