The Sanatorium(58)
Laure and Lucas?” Isaac’s eyes darken. “They were together?”
“Yes. A little while after the hotel opened.” Shifting position in her chair, Elin picks up her fork, pushes a small piece of potato into her mouth. Although it’s dinnertime and she should be hungry, she’s having to force herself to eat. Her appetite is gone.
Elin sweeps her gaze around the lounge. The few remaining guests are huddled around tables, drinking, talking. They’re nervous, she thinks, noting the big gestures, the forced, too-loud laughter. She knows from work that it’s a common reaction: Pretend nothing’s happened. If we pretend hard enough it just might be true.
But the illusion is soon shattered: she clocks a member of staff standing by the door, looking around. Security, keeping watch as she’d advised.
Relief relaxes Isaac’s features. “That was when we were on a break. We were arguing, stupid things . . .” Taking a long drink of his beer, he pushes his plate aside. It’s a pasta dish, untouched, the pale, creamy sauce sitting sticky and congealed.
Despite the confidence in his words, Elin notices the visible swallow. He’s shaken by what I’ve told him. He didn’t know.
“A break?” she repeats, catching Will’s eye, unable to stop the pit opening up in her stomach. Not quite the happy couple she’d assumed.
Would he ever have told me about the break if this hadn’t happened?
It’s impossible to say and the thought stings: there was a time when she knew everything about him.
Exactly which toy car was his favorite. The precise shape of the fragmented birthmark between his toes. How many loaded spoonfuls of chocolate Nesquik he liked in his milk.
Elin feels a sudden, sharp pang of longing for what might have been: a life, connected. They used to talk about it as kids—buying houses in a row, boisterous family meals, their children playing together, being friends.
But that was a long time ago. Feeling a catch in her throat, she has to clear it with a sharp cough. She reaches for her water and sips it.
Isaac rubs at his eyelid. The eczema has spread. A small continent, reaching for his eye. “But what if there’s something more to it?”
“In what way?”
“Those pictures she’s got of him. That’s not normal, is it?” He drums his fingers on the table, his expression grim. “What if something went on between them that we don’t know about?”
“Like what?” Will pulls the bread basket toward him, removes a slice of brown, seeded baguette.
“I don’t know. Maybe it got nasty, or . . .”
Elin clears her throat. “Isaac, we can’t presume anything. Not yet. Jumping to conclusions is the worst thing we can do. We have to stick to facts. Adele’s been killed, and Laure’s missing. That’s all we know.”
“Isaac, mate, she’s right,” Will says, tearing the bread into pieces. “Don’t go thinking the worst yet. Not when you don’t have the information.”
Elin looks at him, smiles, grateful for the backup—another thing Will excels at. Bridging. Smoothing things over.
“Christ, I feel so bloody useless. Finding that woman, like that—” Isaac’s voice splinters. “Elin, Laure’s at risk, isn’t she? Every minute we’re not doing something, there’s every chance she . . .”
She immediately feels the pressure of his words; a weight, pulling her down.
“What if the police can’t get up tonight? Tomorrow? You’ve got to do something. Find her.” He looks toward the window, at the heavy snowfall illuminated by the outside lights. “Look at it out there.”
“Isaac, I’m doing as much as I can. I’m speaking with the police, but it’s limited, what I can do without a full team. It’s not safe to—”
He cuts her off. “What if this were Will?” He jerks his head toward him. “You’d want to find him, wouldn’t you? Knowing what’s just happened?” His eyes are narrowed, fixed on her, like he’s testing her.
Elin blinks, taken aback at the force of his reaction. “Like I said, we don’t even know if they’re linked.”
Isaac stares at her, his expression incredulous. “You really think that what’s happened to Adele is a one-off? Isn’t connected to Laure? It can’t be a coincidence. They both worked here, they were friends.”
Elin hesitates before replying. She agrees with him. After speaking to Lucas, she’s even more convinced the two are connected.
“Look. I—”
“What is it?” Isaac leans over the table, eyes flashing. “You know something, don’t you?”
Elin recoils slightly, smelling beer on his breath, the faint sourness of sweat. The look in his eye—it scares her.
Reminds her of the moments just before he’d flip. Let loose. Throw things, confetti-style, around the room. Even now, she can remember her mother’s expression when it happened—the barely suppressed flinch, the disappointment, bizarrely not at Isaac but at herself, as though she were somehow to blame for his behavior.
A few months after their mother died, Elin found a dusty cardboard box in her mother’s loft, stuffed full of pop-psychology books, torn-out articles, all on the same theme: How your parenting style affects your children. How to get your child to open up.