The Sanatorium(40)
The article continues:
Lucas started making buildings at the age of nine from anything he could find. “Lego, sticks, the food they brought to me in the hospital. In fact, I think that hospital was where my love of buildings, architecture, began. I vowed that when I was better I’d build something of my own, something important. Squeeze the life from every day.”
Hospital? She scans the rest of the article, finds a paragraph of explanation:
Lucas was born with a congenital heart condition called ASD (atrial septal defect), a hole in the heart. It was treated successfully via surgical closure, but the operation and various complications meant he had several long hospital stays as a child.
He’s starting to make sense to Elin now: Lucas Caron is someone with something to prove, mentally, physically. He’s also someone who wants to break the mold. One phrase in particular reflects that: squeeze the life from every day.
She can see why Laure might be intrigued—the mix of businessman and bohemian—but it still doesn’t explain the photographs, why she took them.
Going back to the search, she casts her eyes down the rest of the results. At the bottom of the page she notices a blog story. It’s in English, the title provocative: “How Switzerland’s Property Developers Are Ruining Their Own Towns.”
Elin clicks on it. The content reflects the title—commentary on various property developers, including Lucas. The comments section at the bottom catches her eye: vitriolic remarks about Lucas Caron and Le Sommet, insults about the proposed design, his personality.
There’s talk about Daniel Lemaitre’s disappearance, his personal and professional relationship with Lucas. Gossip mainly; accusations of nepotism, rumors that Lucas was about to pull him from the project.
Still intrigued, she types Lucas’s name into Twitter. She frowns: his name appears in hundreds of tweets, the majority of them negative.
She hears the click of the door. Will.
“What are you doing?” He walks toward her, puts his phone down on the side.
“Reading an article about Lucas Caron. Isaac just showed me some photos Laure had of him.”
“And?”
“It looks like he didn’t know the photos were being taken.”
“Elin, this isn’t any of your business. I think if she isn’t back by tonight, you should let Isaac call the police again. Leave it to them.”
There’s an odd note in his voice: a cool kind of resignation. Not only that, his eyes . . . they’re empty, she thinks, panicking. Hollow. He’s pulling away and it’s her fault. The worst thing is, she knows she can fix it, tell him what he wants to hear—that she’s ready to take the steps she’s meant to take—but it would be a lie.
I’m not ready.
Her life is on hold until she gets answers about what happened to Sam. Something inside her, some important part, is stuck. Snagged on the day he died, like a stitch of a jumper caught on a branch, forever pulling her backward.
Reaching into the wardrobe, Will pulls a sweater over his head. “You know, when I was getting changed, I was thinking, what I said before . . . Please, Elin. I want to go.”
“But—”
“As soon as we can,” Will interrupts. “And there’s this.” He holds out his phone. “I don’t want to be stuck here any longer than we have to. A massive storm is coming in.”
Elin scans the screen.
Unprecedented storm closing in on the Alps. The Italian resort of Cervinia has closed all lifts after high winds force cable cars to swing out of control. More than 6 feet of snow is forecast in the next 48 hours.
“I can’t leave, Will. Not now.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” Will sits on the bed. He looks at her, eyes narrowed, disbelieving. “Elin, I don’t think you’re listening to what I’m saying.”
Panic spools through her. She has to tell him, doesn’t she? Tell him what she really came here for, or she’s at risk of losing him. “I can’t. Me being here, it’s not just about reconnecting with Isaac. It’s about getting the truth.”
“Truth? What’s this all about?”
“It’s about Isaac.” Her voice wavers. “I think he killed Sam. That’s why I’m worried about Laure. I know what he’s capable of.”
31
Killed?” Will repeats, his eyes locked on hers. “You said it was an accident.”
Elin sits down on the bed beside him, her mouth dry. “That was the official verdict. Their assumption was that he fell into the pool, hit his head on a rock, drowned. It fit with what I remembered, but then, a few months later, I started getting these flashbacks.”
“Of what happened?”
“No, that’s the point. I told my parents and the police what I thought I had remembered.” Those memories are still clear, pared back to the most important images. For years, she has mined these images for accuracy, turning them this way or that to probe them for truth, but the bones of them are always there. “But those memories—they’re different from what I see in these flashbacks.”
“So what had you told the police?”
Elin closes her eyes. “We were rock pooling, the three of us.” She can picture it so clearly: the fierce June sun, angled high, throbbing against their skin. Sam’s red, peeling neck, Isaac’s gray T-shirt, splattered with saltwater stains. “We had this competition, who could catch the most crabs. A chart, pinned to the beach-hut wall.” She scuffs her feet together. “The boys took it so seriously. Everything was a competition between them.”