The Sanatorium(22)

“So you were planning on coming?” Keeping her voice level, she notes his lack of apology.

“Yes, but I wanted Laure to come too.” He rubs his eyes. “I don’t know, perhaps I should have said forget it, I’d go on my own, but it was your first night here. We started arguing. It escalated. Laure’s stubborn. Once she digs her heels in . . .”

“Did she tell you what she was planning on doing instead?”

“No. That’s what pissed me off. All she said was that it had to do with the hotel.”

“Work?”

“Yes. The last few months, it’s been nonstop for her.” Draining his coffee, he stands up. His body is tense, coiled. “I’m going to ring around to her friends, family, the neighbors in Sierre. If it’s possible she might have taken off without her stuff, it’s worth a try.”

“You’re sure you don’t want something to eat first?”

No reply; he’s already walking away.

Will waits until Isaac is out of earshot, then looks at her. “You did say this trip wasn’t going to be straightforward.” His words are light but she can hear the tension in them. He hacks at the slice of salmon on his plate.

Elin forces a smile. “Chances are she’s in the hotel. They had a fight, she’s probably drinking coffee in some dark corner of the lounge, hiding.”

“Is that what you’d do to me?” Will forks a ragged, pinkish sliver of salmon into his mouth, face deadpan. “Punish me by hiding away?”

“Will, don’t joke.”

He smiles. “Sorry. I just think it’s too early, isn’t it? For him to be pronouncing something bad has happened.”

“But what about last night? Laure. On the phone. Outside our room. If she’s missing, then it could be relevant.”

The words hang in the air. Elin reprimands herself. This is supposition. They don’t know anything. Yet again, she’s reminded why she shouldn’t be working. She isn’t ready, is she? This guesswork, the jumping to conclusions—it’s wrong.

“Elin, already he’s got you on edge.”

“So what do you propose I do? Ignore what he’s saying?” Elin’s grip tightens on the glass, fingertips turning white from the pressure.

“No, but for what it’s worth, I think it’s bullshit. They’ve had some tiff, and you’re bearing the brunt of it.”

Elin doesn’t reply. Looking up, she sees Isaac walking down the corridor. She absorbs his silhouette, the loping, slightly bowlegged walk. It’s so familiar it stings. She blinks. Memories rise up, like bubbles coming to the surface.

Sky. Running clouds. The black dart of birds.

Then blood, always blood.

Will glances at her. “I don’t know if you realize it, but you always look a certain way when you see him.”

“A certain way?” Elin can hear her heart, pulsing in her ears.

“Scared.” Will pushes his plate away. “Every time you see him you look scared.”





18





Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jeremie turns, forces his gaze back to the snow, the grim discovery. The bile stings, acidic in his throat.

Beneath the bracelet is bone. Bone contorted in an inhuman angle.

He shifts position, barely able to catch his breath. He can feel sweat beading up on his forehead.

There have been a few discoveries like this over the past few years; global warming forcing glaciers to retreat, revealing corpses missing for decades.

Not far from here, a married couple was found on a glacier near Chandolin, over seventy-five years after their disappearance. They’d fallen into a deep crevasse.

Photos appeared for days in the newspapers, online: graphic and intrusive, despite the passing of the years. A battered leather bag, a wine bottle. Black heeled boots with old-fashioned, crudely nailed soles.

Jeremie had been transfixed—not only by what the pictures revealed of a forgotten way of life, but by the magnitude of what they represented: closure. He imagined the family, their descendants, their grief no longer suspended.

He moves his gaze lower. Below the bracelet, a watch. It’s expensive, he can tell: wide, gold strap, a large, flashy face, bezel studded with tiny diamonds.

There are words on the inside of the strap—an engraving. He peers closer.

Daniel Lemaitre.

Jeremie recoils. The missing architect.

Opening his pocket, he pulls out his phone and dials 117, a fresh band of sweat breaking out across his forehead.





19





Isaac.” Elin raps on the door. “Isaac, it’s me.” Her chest is prickling with heat, the technical merino layer she’s wearing designed for outside, not in.

The door swings open. Isaac’s face is flushed, blotchy.

“Sorry I didn’t call before,” Elin says, hesitant. “Will wanted to go for a walk after breakfast.” She forces a smile. “We didn’t get far. The snow’s so deep.”

Isaac nods, something shifting across his face: a flash of emotion, gone so fast she can’t make it out. It was the same when they were children. Elin floundering, at a disadvantage, wondering what was going through his mind.

He turns and walks back into the room.