The Sanatorium(38)

“She’s good at putting on a brave face, but underneath, she’s fighting to hold it together. Here especially. She can’t afford to lose another job.”

“Another?”

“Her last role, they more or less asked her to go. They gave her a good reference, because she went quietly, but even so.”

“What happened?”

“The hours, the workload . . . it got to her. She wasn’t sleeping properly, kept calling in sick, started lashing out at staff, guests.”

Elin tries to splice the information together with what she knows about Laure. It’s impossible, like he’s speaking about two different people. She stumbles over what she’s about to say next. “I . . . I also found a mobile-phone statement, Isaac. It’s not the phone you’ve got. I think she’s got another one.”

“Wait, what? I think I’d know if . . .” Isaac trails off, heat flaring up his neck.

“She did. It’s in her name. The bills were sent to the hotel.” Elin picks up a piece of bread, puts it down again. Her soup, the quivering drops of oil suspended in the steaming liquid . . . it’s unappetizing. Too much.

“Well, if she has, she can’t have used it much.”

“There’s lots of calls, Isaac. Texts too. There’s a number she rang repeatedly the past few months. A Swiss mobile.”

Isaac passes his tongue over his teeth, agitated. “Have you got the bills?”

She nods. Reaching into her bag, she passes him the most recent one. His eyes scour the page with an aching slowness. He doesn’t recognize the number.

“I’m going to ring it now.” Isaac pulls his phone from his pocket; his hair falls across his forehead, sending his face into shadow.

“Ring what?”

“Laure’s other phone. The number’s at the top of the page.”

As he dials, Elin chews the edge of her fingernail, a horrible sense of trepidation settling over her. Her eyes alight on the huge chandelier above them. It’s an abstract design—made up of hundreds of sharp-edged fragments of glass suspended at varying heights. It’s eye-catching, but the complexity, the lack of symmetry, is too much. It’s too harsh a centerpiece.

Isaac pulls the phone from his ear. “It’s going straight to voice mail. An automated voice.” He picks up the bill again, grasping it so tightly the paper puckers. “I’ll try the number she kept calling.”

It’s a few seconds before someone picks up. “Hello?” A hesitation. “Hello?” Isaac repeats. “Are you there?” Slowly, he drags the phone from his ear, puts it on the table. All Elin can see is the confusion in his eyes. Not anger. A quiet devastation.

Laure’s lied to him and he had no idea.

Touched, Elin looks down at her hands. He won’t want her pity. Never has.

“They picked up, then hung up after I spoke.”

“Try again.”

But this time, almost as soon he brings the phone to his ear, he puts it back down. “This time it’s not even ringing.”

“They must’ve switched it off. Isaac, it doesn’t matter. If something has happened, we can get the police to go further back. On her other one too. The phone provider can produce a list of any numbers dialed or received in the past six months.”

Isaac drums his fingers on the table, silent. She’s not sure if he’s even heard her.

A waitress, a brunette, runs a cloth over the table next to them. When she finishes wiping, she turns, smiles.

“Would you like anything else?”

Elin is about to reply, but Isaac gets there before her. “No,” he says tightly. “The food’s crap anyway.”

“Isaac . . .” She smiles apologetically at the waitress.

“What? I’m saying it how it is.”

The waitress straightens, flushes. “Sir, I can get you something different if you’d prefer, and I can, of course, pass on any feedback to the team.”

“No, it’s fine.” Elin shoots Isaac a warning look. “Really, we’re fine.”

As the waitress moves away, Elin frowns. “Why do you always have to do that? Lash out? It’s not her fault Laure’s missing.”

It’s always been his default: taking things out on other people. She remembers the time he lost a toy their father bought him for acing his exams at school, a leggy metal robot that spoke when you pressed its antennae: I am at your command but treat me with caution! Sam bore the brunt of his anger—room torn apart, his Playmobil pirate abducted in retaliation.

Sam stuck close to Elin for weeks afterward. They became each other’s human shield: every time Isaac got angry, they’d seek each other out for protection.

The awkward silence continues; Isaac rubs the back of his neck. “You’re right,” he says finally, “but I don’t like this. It feels . . . wrong. If she’s not back tonight, I’m calling the police again.”

“She might be back by then,” Elin replies without conviction. “All this . . . it could be for nothing.”

“You might change your mind after seeing these.” Delving into his bag, he withdraws a pile of photographs, drops it on the table. “Look at these, then tell me it’s nothing.”

Elin slides the pile toward her. Her breathing quickens: the photographs are all different, but they’re of the same person.