The Sanatorium(13)
“They extended at the end of the building to maximize this view.” Laure’s voice echoes out. “All this glass, it’s deliberate. When the weather’s good you’ve got a 360-degree view of the mountains, the natural light . . .”
“I was telling Elin about the focus on light in the original design.” Will’s still looking out. “They thought it helped recovery, didn’t they?”
“Yes.” Laure turns. “The standard of care for TB at the time was mainly environmental. Fresh air, sunlight. Ultraviolet rays were believed to be healing, so they sat patients out on the balconies and terraces, even through the winter, to take in the sun.”
Elin is struggling to take it all in: Snow. The shimmering water.
It’s dizzying. She still feels horribly exposed; that nothing separates them from the storm raging outside. She rubs at her temples and turns away from the glass, the swirling mass of snow.
“El? You okay?” Will says.
“Fine. Just a bit lightheaded.”
“It’s probably the altitude,” Laure says. “We’re high, for a hotel. More than seventy-two hundred feet.”
“I don’t think it’s that,” Isaac says slowly. “You used to be like this as a kid, if we went somewhere new, you felt uncomfortable.”
“Isaac, stop.” The words are sharper than she intended. “How is that relevant? I’m hardly a child anymore, am I?”
He holds up his hands, flattens his palms in surrender. “Chill, I was just . . .” He shakes his head.
Watching him, anger spikes in her chest. This brotherly concern, it’s an act; she’d clocked the fleeting, superior smile.
As kids, he’d do this all the time: flip the conversation to expose her, lay her bare. She remembers telling her mother over dinner about a friend she’d made, Isaac immediately countering with something derogatory: Isn’t that the new girl? That weird one, who’s always on her own?
Will takes her hand, squeezes. “Shall we go?”
Grateful, Elin nods, looks to the pool itself. It’s big for a hotel, floor and walls patterned with the same gray marble tiles. Tiny veins flicker up them like flames. Shimmering mirages of the snow-covered trees outside are reflected in the water.
A lone woman in a black swimsuit is doing lengths, her muscular body illuminated in the spotlights beneath the water. Her limbs slice rhythmically through the water: an athlete’s freestyle.
Isaac frowns. “Isn’t that Cecile?”
Following his gaze, Laure stiffens.
“Cecile?” Elin echoes, intrigued.
“Cecile Caron. The hotel manager,” Laure says. Her voice is tight. “She’s the sister of the owner. She swims every day. She competed at a national level.”
“She’s good,” Elin says, transfixed by the woman’s easy prowess.
“Do you still like swimming?” Laure changes the subject.
Elin shakes her head, flushes, heat chasing up her back.
That familiar rush of feeling consumes her: embarrassment, fear, frustration.
As she turns away, it hits her: Isaac never told Laure how things changed after Sam died.
He hasn’t told her any of it.
10
It’s a relief to exit the pool area. Exhaling hard, Elin leans against the wall. Her breathing is heavy, labored.
What’s wrong with her? This is meant to be a break, a chance to relax. It’s the disadvantage of not working, her mind simultaneously overactive and underused.
But that’s my choice, she thinks, her mind leaping to the e-mail she received from her detective chief inspector, Anna, a week ago.
Spoke to Jo. Need your decision at the end of the month xx
Two weeks. Two weeks to decide if she wants to end her leave, to go back.
Elin hasn’t replied yet. Doesn’t know what the answer is. She remembers the last time she spoke to Anna, the frustration and disappointment lacing her voice.
You’re too good a detective to let this take over, Elin.
Detective.
Even the word is raw. It means too much. Not just hopes and dreams, but blood and sweat and slog—time in uniform, exams, interviews.
Now it’s all in question.
Pushing the thought away, she follows Laure back down the corridor. Just ahead two men are deep in conversation.
Laure slows. Elin notices her exchange a glance with Isaac.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
“One of the staff, with the hotel owner, Lucas Caron.” Laure brushes a nonexistent hair away from her face. Her hand is shaking.
She’s flustered. Why?
“Wasn’t he meant to be away?” Isaac murmurs.
Laure nods. “With Cecile. They weren’t due back until next week.”
Will’s still looking at one of the men, the blond with the beard. “So that’s the man . . . Lucas Caron . . .”
His gaze lingers. Elin follows it, sees immediately what’s caught his interest.
Lucas Caron is striking; very obviously someone powerful, important. A boss.
He’s tall, athletic looking, but it isn’t his stature that’s giving off the power vibe; it’s his wide-legged stance, the big expansive gestures. Only people with influence, money, possess that kind of inbuilt belief that they have the right to take up that much space.