The Sanatorium(114)
Picture postcard.
Elin puts her fingers to the window. She can feel Will’s eyes on her.
“Are you going to get the necklace fixed?” he says.
On autopilot, she reaches up, feels for it, but of course there’s nothing there. She shrugs. “I don’t know.” She likes the empty swoop-hollow of her neck. It feels lighter, somehow. Free.
Will clears his throat. “Are you sure you’re ready to leave Isaac?” He puts his hand in hers. His palm is warm.
She forces herself to meet his gaze. “I think he’s going to be okay. Knowing that Cecile’s been arrested . . . he said it helps.”
“Do you know what’s happened to Lucas?”
“Yes. Berndt told me this morning. He’s been arrested for his role in what happened; getting rid of Daniel’s body and disposing of the evidence, covering up the truth about the sanatorium’s past.” She pauses. “He’s admitted to knowing about the documentation, the graves, and bribing officials so none of it would be revealed.”
A few beats of silence. “And what about you?” he prompts. “Are you okay with us going?”
“I think so.” It feels strange, though; the thought of leaving, because she wasn’t only leaving this place, she was leaving other things behind—Isaac, Laure, and a version of the truth she’d carried inside her for so long, it had defined her. Become her. Now she’s got to live with something new.
“I’m more concerned about you. The walking wounded.”
“On the mend.” Will raises a hand to his stomach.
The gesture is so him, so low-key, so understated, she’s seized by a sudden urge to hold him. Touch him. Open up in a way she’s always resisted before.
She pulls him toward her, holds him in a clumsy rough embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. “I’m sorry for what happened.” Her voice sounds strange. “I never meant for you to have to deal with any of this. You . . . you mean everything to me.”
“I know,” he whispers into her hair. “It’s over now. We can move on.”
“Speaking of which.” Breaking away, she unzips her bag, withdraws a magazine. The cover’s folded, so she pushes it back with her fingers.
Will scans the cover. “Living Etc? Where did you get that?”
“At the supermarket in Crans. Cost me about twenty quid, but . . .” Elin flicks through the pages, finds the one she wants. “That one.” She jabs at the page. “That sofa there. What do you think?”
“What for?”
“Our new place.”
He’s silent for a moment, then smiles. “I like it.”
Elin’s about to reply when she feels her phone buzzing in her pocket.
She pulls it out, and inspects the screen.
“What is it?” Will looks over her shoulder.
“Work.” Her eyes trace the words on the screen. “They were fine with me taking a bit longer because of Isaac, but they need to know by next week.”
Will nods, surveying the view through the window. Elin follows his gaze. They’re nearly at the bottom of the valley. Chalets have given way to houses, snow-covered vineyards. Only some of the vines themselves are visible, thin dark smears rising through the snow.
He turns back to look at her. “So, have you made a decision?”
“I think so.”
Next to them, a passenger reaches up, opens one of the windows. Tilting her head up, Elin can feel the cool breeze move over her face. It’s early in the year still, not quite March, but she thinks she can sense it—the taste of spring in the air.
New life.
EPILOGUE
He’s only one carriage back.
If they were to glance over, they might see him there. He’s the one leaning against the window, the only one not taking in the view.
There’s a small group in front of him—Middle Eastern. They’re passing a bottle of water between them, speaking in rapid Arabic.
Every few minutes, they point at something through the smeared glass: a chalet, a church, the crumbled remains of a wooden outbuilding. They don’t notice him. No one’s even met his eye.
A Swiss family is behind him—mother, father, two girls no older than ten. The girls are dressed in brightly colored ski clothes—rainbow stripes that crinkle as they move. The younger girl, red-haired, freckled, is chewing on an overstuffed baguette, her cheek resting against her older sister’s chest.
The mother takes a photograph of them and the father sighs, annoyed. He’s laden with ski poles, a rucksack, a thick down coat slung over his arm.
Neither looks at him as he cranes his head over the group in front.
He glances back at Elin. She’s smiling, gesticulating as she says something to her boyfriend. She’s animated, something he hasn’t seen in her for a long time.
It’s clear she’s oblivious to him, just like she was oblivious in the hotel, oblivious to what happened by the plunge pool, and exactly whose hand it was at the small of her back. Pressing. Pushing.
He doesn’t mind: the anonymity suits him. There’s no hurry, is there?
He’s found it’s best to wait until someone’s relaxed, has let down their guard.
That’s the sweet spot, isn’t it?