The Sanatorium(41)

“I was like that with my brother too.”

“But this . . . it was odd. The intensity. Taking pleasure in each other’s failures. It never made sense . . . it wasn’t even like they were similar. Sam was the opposite of Isaac. An open book. Mum always said he was like her, the easy child.” He even looked like her, she thinks—pale skin, blond hair so fine that if it got wet you could see the bone-white of his scalp beneath.

“So you weren’t easy, then?” Will raises an eyebrow.

“No, not like Sam. Everyone says the youngest is the happiest, and it’s true. He was always the one who made us laugh, smoothed things over when we argued. Looking back now, I think he had the best bits of me and Isaac combined. High energy like me, but with Isaac’s laser focus. He could sit down, concentrate in a way I never could—Lego, homework, reading. Nothing seemed to faze him . . . except Isaac. He knew how to push Sam’s buttons.”

“He did it a lot?”

“Yes. He was different to me and Sam. There’s a wild streak there. Mum was usually unflappable, but Isaac made her nervous sometimes.” Elin pinches the bedspread between her fingers. “I felt it too. He was unpredictable. I think part of it was because he was extraordinarily clever. He liked to toy with people, with situations, understand why they reacted like they did.”

“That sounds quite cold.”

“Yes, he could be. Sometimes he didn’t seem to have the same response to things that other people had. As though a part of him had worked out that emotions didn’t get you anywhere in the long run, so he put himself above them.”

Will looks at her. “Or perhaps he sensed that Sam was your mother’s favorite? Perhaps he closed off. Self-preservation.”

“But I never said that.” Her voice is sharp, surprising herself. “I never said Sam was her favorite.”

“But how you said it, it sounded like . . .” Will shrugs. “Forget it. What happened next?”

“Isaac was angry because Sam was winning. I’d had enough, left them to it, went over to another rock pool. I’d only been gone a few minutes when I heard shouting. I turned, saw Sam’s bucket knocked over.” Elin blinks. “His crabs were slipping back into the water. Sam was screaming, battering Isaac with his fists. It was getting out of hand, so I went over, told them to stop.”

“The peacemaker.”

Elin nods. “They made up. Isaac apologized. Everything seemed fine, so I wandered farther, toward the cliff. I thought they’d sorted it out.” She falters, even now, the memory knife sharp in her head. “I don’t know how long it was exactly, maybe fifteen minutes, twenty. I could hear Isaac. He was screaming. I ran back.”

She can feel it now; panic triggering inside her, like a siren. “I found Isaac in the rock pool. Up to his shoulders. Beside—” The words catch in her throat. “Beside Sam. He had him under the arms, trying to drag him out, but he couldn’t get his footing. He kept shouting, ‘We can help him, we can help him,’ but I knew he was dead. His color . . .” Her voice splinters. “We tried, kept going until the paramedics got there, but he was gone.”

Will takes her hand in his, squeezes. “So where was Isaac when it happened?”

“He said he’d gone to the loo. When he came back he found Sam in the water. He assumed he’d slipped, hit his head on a rock.”

“Without anyone noticing?”

“The rock pools were isolated, at the end of the beach. Unless someone happened to be there, they wouldn’t have seen.”

Will’s forehead is creased in concentration. “So why do you think Isaac was responsible?” He runs his thumb over the back of her hand.

“A few months after, I started getting these flashbacks. The only way I can describe it is like when you’re dreaming. At that one moment, it’s clear, but then once you’re properly awake, you can’t hold on to it. A snapshot, the outline of something I haven’t yet filled in. Most of it goes until the next one.”

The psychotherapist she saw last year told her that this isn’t unusual, that it’s her conscious mind’s way of protecting itself. Protecting her.

“Can you recall anything from the flashbacks clearly?”

“Only one thing. One image I can’t get out of my head. Isaac’s by the cliff. His hands . . .” The words are sticky in her throat. “They’re covered in blood.”

“But surely that’s impossible. You found him in the pool, trying to pull Sam out. Was there blood on him then?”

“No. That’s what I can’t work out.”

“Have you talked to anyone about this?” Will reaches behind him, grabs the bottle of water from the table. “What you remember?”

“Apart from the psychotherapist, no. Mum, Dad . . . they’d lost Sam. This . . . it would have been like losing Isaac too. I couldn’t do it to them.”

“And you haven’t said anything to Isaac?”

“No. I know what would happen. He’d go on the defensive, think I was accusing him of hurting Sam.”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” Will opens the water, slugs some back. His gaze is fixed on her. Intent, unblinking.

She balks at that. “But . . .”

“Elin, come on. That’s what you’re implying.”