The Sanatorium(35)

Adele’s heart falters, trips.

It’s then she hears it, the sound that cuts right through her: the strange wet suck of air being inhaled, the high-pitched whistle of the exhale.

The sound of their mask. Different from hers, louder.

Despite herself, she tilts her head again, farther, catches a glimpse of them.

Her captor is holding something—a phone. Your phone, she thinks, recognizing the battered blue case.

Their fingers are moving rapidly across the screen.

Several beats pass and then Adele hears a familiar whooshing sound. It takes her a moment to process the significance: They’ve sent a message. A message from your phone.

A few seconds later, another sound. A low beep.

Someone’s replied.

It’s then it hits her: They’ve sent a message pretending to be you.

She feels her stomach plummet: no one will know she’s missing now. Whoever gets the message will assume she’s fine.

No one will look for you. No one will know that anything’s wrong.

Adele tries to scream, but the sound behind the mask is muted, pathetic.

The figure turns, staring at her for a few minutes as if considering something.

Then comes the voice. “Ready?”

A delay: her ears absorbing sound before her brain registers it. Adele flinches, reeling.

The voice. She knows that voice.

Adele’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. A quake inside her: the last bit of hope, gone.

There would be no getting out of this.

In a way, she’s always known this moment was coming. What happened has never gone away. She’s forced it to the furthest reaches of her mind, but the knowledge has always been there—like a clot, sitting benign inside your vein, just waiting for the moment to come unstuck and wreak havoc.

Adele lies perfectly still, waiting. All she can hear is her captor’s breathing.

Any moment. Any moment.

The flashlight beam jolts, moves again. Bending at the waist, the person fumbles in the small black bag on the floor. They rummage in the bag, withdraw a syringe.

A sharp scratch on her arm before everything goes dark, but not fast enough for her to miss the sound of the small metal table being dragged across the floor toward her, the clank and jolt of the metal instruments as it moves.





28





She still isn’t back?” The hotel manager tenses, the papers clasped in her hand creasing between her fingers under the pressure.

Elin examines the name badge pinned to her dark shirt: CECILE CARON. GENERAL MANAGER. The woman she saw in the pool yesterday; the developer’s sister.

There’s definitely a resemblance: the same rangy height, muscular frame, similar sandy-blond hair, although Cecile’s is shorter, even shorter than Elin’s. It’s cropped close around her face, revealing sharp, angular cheekbones.

Her features are strong, defined. She’s isn’t wearing any makeup, but she doesn’t need it. Any adornment would look silly somehow. Superfluous.

Elin shakes her head. “Isaac hasn’t heard from her. No one has.”

A shadow crosses Cecile’s face. “Are you sure he’s spoken to everyone?”

Elin nods. “Everyone. Friends, family, neighbors. They thought she was here, with Isaac.” She pauses. “I don’t know if Laure mentioned it, but this was meant to be their engagement celebration.”

“She told me.” Cecile emerges from behind the reception desk, papers still grasped tightly in her hand. “She also said you’re a police officer in the UK?” Her expression is unreadable. It immediately makes Elin feel uncomfortable.

“I am.” As soon as the words are out, Elin flushes. She should have corrected her: Why not tell the truth? Why give myself an authority I don’t deserve? “Isaac is my brother. He’s called the police. They’ve made a note of it, to follow up, but they think it’s too early to warrant investigating. I said I’d ask a few questions in the meantime.”

Giving a brusque nod, Cecile murmurs something to the receptionist. She turns back to Elin. “Let’s go to my office. It’s better if we speak there.”

Following her out of the lobby, into the main corridor, Elin struggles to keep up with Cecile’s efficient stride.

Her trousers pull up slightly as she walks, as if they’re catching on her legs, the visible muscle in her thighs. She’s the first member of staff that Elin’s seen who looks somehow wrong in the uniform; a fish out of water.

The pared-back Scandinavian style—black shirt, slim-fit tapered trousers, gray pumps, don’t suit her body. Her broad shoulders, solid limbs, are pulling at the fabric, subtly altering the cut of the clothes. Like Elin, she’s probably more comfortable in workout clothes.

Cecile takes the first door on the right. They walk down another short corridor. The offices are at the end, on the left. Pushing at the door, she holds it open.

“Please, go in. Take a seat.”

For the first time, Elin picks up on the American inflection in Cecile’s English. Either educated there, or lived there long enough for it to become the default.

In Cecile’s office, she’s once again faced with a wall of glass, but any view of the mountains is now obscured by a bank of thick, black cloud. The snow has started up again, dizzying in its intensity, large, fat flakes plummeting to the ground.