The Sanatorium(36)

Cecile’s desk is positioned centrally, directly in front of the glass. Like a target, Elin observes, shoulders stiffening. In full view.

As she takes a seat, her gaze roams around the rest of the space: two computer screens side by side on the desk, a pile of papers, a reusable coffee cup.

Directly facing her are several photographs, nestled together on the desk.

Elin recognizes a younger Cecile right away: clasping a trophy, a medal slung at an angle around her neck. In the other she’s in a pool, swimming cap peeled off, dangling from her hand, the other clenched in a fist pump.

Cecile follows Elin’s gaze. “I used to swim competitively.” A short, hard laugh. “Back in the day.”

She flushes, embarrassed at being caught staring. “Bit of a career change.”

“Didn’t quite make the grade.” Cecile smiles. “You know how it is. The competition’s fierce the higher you go.”

A dream unfulfilled, thinks Elin, watching Cecile’s eyes flicker toward the photograph, then away. A dream that meant enough for her to keep a photograph on her desk, however painful it is to remember.

But then, who doesn’t have dreams like that? Who doesn’t wonder: What if life had taken a different path?

She changes the subject. “So you haven’t seen Laure?”

“Not since yesterday. She was having lunch in the lounge.” Her forehead creases into a frown. “Are you sure she hasn’t rung anyone else?”

“No.”

“No one’s picked her up from here? Someone Isaac doesn’t know?”

“It’s possible, but it still doesn’t explain why she hasn’t been in contact, why she didn’t take her things. Her phone, bag, purse . . . they’re still here.”

“She definitely hasn’t gone home?”

“No. The neighbor’s got a key, let himself in. No one was there.”

“But it’s possible, surely, that she’s gone of her own accord, didn’t want people to know. Had cold feet about the engagement? People get anxious right before making that final commitment.” Cecile shrugs. “I know I did.”

Elin looks down at Cecile’s hand. No wedding ring.

Cecile clocks the glance. “Divorced.”

Catching the note of defiance in her voice, Elin immediately empathizes with the implicit pushback in it. People asking, having to await the clichéd platitudes that followed: You’ll find the right one. Don’t worry, it’s not too late.

Elin’s only thirty-two, but before she’d met Will, she’d heard them all. Hit your late twenties and people felt the need to box you up, categorize you.

If they couldn’t, they saw you as a threat. An indefinable.

“Yes,” Elin concedes, turning the conversation back to Laure. “People going off, it happens more often than you’d think. The family starts panicking, only to find out it’s planned. Sometimes people don’t like having to explain, so they bolt.” She leans forward. “So you’re not aware of any problems? Reasons for her to take off?”

“No. Laure’s always been an exceptional employee. Punctual. Bright.” Cecile fiddles with a pen on the desk. “Look, I’m probably not the best person to speak to. We had a good relationship, but a professional one. Laure . . . she’s a private person. She wouldn’t share personal things. Not unless it was necessary.”

“Would you mind if I take a look at her desk? See if she’s left something here. Travel details, anything like that.” Elin keeps her voice deliberately light.

“Why?” Something flickers across Cecile’s features that Elin can’t decipher.

“You can stay,” Elin adds. “I’m not interested in anything work related.”

Cecile relaxes. “Of course. It’s through here.” She pushes on the smoked glass of the right-hand wall. The door opens outward with a soft click.

Inside, it’s the same layout as Cecile’s, but half the size. Hovering near the door, Cecile’s already staring down at her phone.

Elin scans the surface of the desk. It’s neat: laptop, pencil holder, phone, a small succulent in a lime-green pot. The end of a phone charger dangles aimlessly off the side of the surface. It’s innocuous. Impersonal. Revealing nothing.

Reaching below the desk, she tugs at the right-hand drawer. It’s unlocked, easily opened. There isn’t much inside: a presentation, notes from meetings, a folder. She flicks through, then discards them, picking up the blue manila folder. Several folded pieces of paper are inside. An article printed from a website. The headline is in French: Dépression. Clipped to the top right of the page is a business card.


AMELIE FRANCES

PSYCHOTHERAPIE | PSYCHOLOGIE





24, RUE DE LAUSANNE



Elin steals a sideways glance at Cecile. She’s on the phone.

Quickly slipping the card into her pocket, she turns to the drawer on the left.

It’s empty but for a purple folder. She opens it and leafs through: mobile-phone bills going back every month for over a year. They’re in Laure’s name, but addressed to the hotel.

“Found something?” Cecile looks up.

“I don’t know.” Elin hesitates. “Do you use work mobiles here?”