The Sanatorium(32)

“You know what I’m saying. Moving in together. Nearly three years, and we’re still living in separate apartments.” He swallows hard. “I want us to be together, Elin, all the time. Share the day-to-day stuff. Be a proper couple.”

“I know, but it’s hard, taking that step, while I’m still dealing with everything.”

Will shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s it. I know I probably sound like an idiot, unsympathetic, but I think you have a choice in this. You can be brave, Elin, choose not to let the past take over your life.”

“A choice?” Her voice is shaky. “I’d hardly choose my life like it is now . . .”

“You do have a choice. Look at my father. The macular degeneration. He’s had to change his whole way of life to accommodate it, but he’s never complained.” Will looks at her. “He made a choice, Elin. Not to let it get him down, ruin his life. You can do the same.”

“Not everyone can be like you and your family,” she says tightly. “So bloody strong. You’re lucky, Will, that you’re all so close. It helps to have that support network, people to talk to without judgment. When you have that as a base, it’s easier to take risks, make decisions.”

“I know.” He sounds tired. “But we have the chance to build the same kind of family, our family. The only way we’ll get there is if you break down those walls you’ve built between us. I just don’t get how with this, with Isaac, you’re giving it your all, but with us . . .” He shakes his head.

Elin’s instinct is to come back, defend herself, but he’s right. She has put up walls between them. She doesn’t want to, but she has.

“It’s just, Isaac, he—” She stops. Part of her wants to just tell him, tell him the one thing that might make him understand what she’s really doing here. Explain that while she’s desperate to move on, she can’t until she knows the truth about what happened to Sam that day. But the words are stuck.

It’s always the same—on the verge of telling him but stopping short. It feels a step too far, that she’s not just exposing part of herself but a part of her family, too—an intimacy that scares her.

Will looks at her. “You know, if you keep all this up, when Laure’s back later—and I’ve no doubt she will come back—I think we should talk about whether staying . . . if it’s a good idea.”

“You want to leave?” Elin repeats, blindsided, panic surging through her, little pricking darts jagging at her nerves.

We can’t leave. Not yet. We leave now, and this whole trip will have been for nothing. I’m not even close to getting answers.

“Yes. I don’t want to keep seeing you like this. Your reaction, I don’t like it. You’re stressed, Elin. I don’t think it’s good for you, being here, around him. You’re . . . You’re not being yourself.”

Elin wants to protest, but he’s right. She’s not being herself. Her thoughts aren’t calm; they’re acrobatic, wheeling thoughts she can’t make sense of.

Will’s mouth is poised to say something else, but he thinks better of it. Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself back into the pool using the heels of his hands.





25





As Elin pushes through the doors into the changing area, Will’s words beat out in her head: You’re not being yourself.

Tears stinging the back of her eyes, she slips her feet into her shoes, bends down, picks up her bag. As she straightens up, she pauses.

A sound: a door, swinging open and shut.

Elin turns, expecting to see someone emerge from one of the cubicles, wet hair, swim bag in hand.

Silence.

No one’s that quiet, surely? Changing necessitates noise: the scratchy rub of clothing on damp skin, the little grunts of frustration as buttons get tangled in wet hair, straps are turned inside out.

Yet there it is again—the click and swing of a door.

Elin waits, still expecting someone to emerge, but there’s nothing.

The silence stretches out, amplifying the hammering of the pulse in her ears. Every sense is heightened as she turns, scans the space.

Everything’s still. Quiet.

Pushing forward, she starts walking toward the door leading back to reception. Don’t be stupid, she tells herself, it’s nothing.

But that’s not true.

She heard something. She isn’t imagining it.

Elin walks slowly down the length of the changing cubicles.

The experience is a strange one; she hadn’t realized how peculiar the changing room design was before, each door seamlessly melding into the next. The effect is of an internal corridor bisecting the space. A stark, sterile tunnel.

Not only that: there aren’t any handles on any of the doors.

How do they open?

Elin tentatively pushes the one closest to her. The pressure of her hand does something; the door swings inward with a click.

She surveys the space inside. A narrow bench runs along the left-hand wall of the cubicle. It has a flap at either end, folded up to allow the door to open. When lowered, it would both be a bench of normal width and lock the door closed.

Walking the length of the cubicles, she pushes at each door.

Click.

Click.

Click.