The Sanatorium(47)

Her gaze moves to the woman’s wrists. They’re tightly bound with a thin, woven rope.

She’s been restrained.

Then her eyes catch something else: several of the woman’s fingers are missing. One on the first hand. Two on the second. An involuntary shiver passes through her.

Will follows her gaze, eyes glazed. “I’m going to take Isaac inside. Get him dried off.”

Elin is about to reply when she hears a voice.

“It’s Adele.” Cecile’s voice, from behind her. Flat. Expressionless. “One of the housekeeping staff.”

Turning, Elin sees the group behind her has swelled to four, five staff. One of them is sobbing, the rest talking in muffled voices, eyes darting toward the body.

I have to do something—take control.

This is probably a crime scene, and it’s already a mess. The snow surrounding the pool is pocked with footprints, some smeared, some already covered in a fresh layer of snow.

Elin turns back to the body. Snow is collecting on the woman’s face, clothes, the mask beside her. The sight, once again, pulls the breath from her body. It’s like she’s on pause, every fiber in her body in stasis.

Part of her wants to run, block it out, but she knows: this moment, it’s a pivot point. Now or never. If she can’t help now, in such a desperate situation, when no one else is qualified to do so, then she’ll probably never be able to.

Turning properly, she faces the small group behind her.

“I can help. I’m a police officer,” she says, hesitantly at first.

The group doesn’t look up.

Elin allows herself a moment, collects her thoughts.

Clearing her throat, she raises her voice. “I’m a police officer. Please step back. This might be a crime scene. We don’t want to destroy any evidence.”





37





I’ve called the police. They’re on their way. I . . .” Cecile stops, eyes pulled toward the body. Her face crumples. “I can’t help thinking, perhaps we should have tried to resuscitate her. It feels wrong, not even—”

“There was nothing anybody could do,” Elin says softly. It’s even more obvious now, she thinks, looking at Adele’s body, the stiffening neck, the bluish hue to her features.

Bending down, she takes a closer look. The woman is about the same age as Laure, perhaps a little younger. Her black puffer jacket is unzipped, her T-shirt ridden up, revealing a thin, muscular torso.

Her initial theory is right: rigor mortis definitely hasn’t developed in her body, so she hasn’t been in the water long.

Her dark hair is matted, the water on the surface already freezing into translucent shards, the very top flecked with snow. A whitish foam is seeping from her mouth. It’s cooling at the corners, solidifying.

Elin knows what this means: the froth is a mix of mucus, air, and water that combines during respiration. Its presence is enough to indicate that she became immersed while she was still breathing, though it isn’t enough to prove conclusively that she drowned.

As Elin glances at her eyes, she can see that they’re lifelike, glistening. No lines to indicate exposure to air postdeath.

Her gaze tracks sideways to the mask on the snow. Her skin prickles. The black rubber is already dusted with snow, but it doesn’t take away from its grotesque shape, form.

What is it?

Elin’s always hated masks, of any kind: Halloween, surgical. The concealment, it horrifies her. Not knowing what lurks beneath.

“That mask”—Cecile follows her gaze—“I recognize it from the archive. It was used here, in the sanatorium. A breathing aid.” She brings a hand up to her mouth, starts chewing at her nails.

Elin nods. What did it mean? Some kind of game gone wrong? Something sexual?

She looks again at Adele’s hands. The rope around her wrists suggests she’s been restrained, possibly held somewhere for a while. Enough time to amputate the fingers, she thinks grimly, her gaze moving to the small stubs remaining, about half a centimeter above the knuckle.

But there’s still no indication of how she got in the water, and what happened while she was in there.

All signs point to the fact she drowned, so why had it been so uneventful? If she was alive when she went in the water, why had no one heard anything? Even with her hands tied behind her back, she could have floated, treaded water, given herself enough time to shout for help. Splashed . . .

Even if someone had held her down, which looked unlikely given the lack of abrasions, there would still have been noise, so why had no one heard anything?

It’s then Elin sees it: a small, dark shadow on the bottom of the pool a few yards from where Adele’s body had been. With a mounting sense of disquiet, she stands up, directing the beam of the flashlight into the water.

A sandbag.

Elin sucks in her breath. Adele was weighted down.

That’s why no one heard anything. Someone had wanted her dead quickly. Efficiently.

Any lingering doubts she has are gone: a sudden, sharp jag of realization in her gut.

This . . . it isn’t an accident. She’s been killed.

This is murder.

A dark bubble of horror opens inside her.

Elin feels a physical pain at this: a life snuffed out so violently. A thousand other ways would have been quicker, more painless. This was about making her suffer.