The Sanatorium(86)

The more likely option, however, was that she was abducted overnight. Yet one thing about that theory doesn’t stack up: there was a member of staff acting as security, outside the rooms all night.

How would the killer have got past him?

Opening the door, Elin walks down the corridor toward him. He’s young; his face still chubby, faint pockmarks scarring his nose, his cheeks.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, but the ignorance implied by his question is belied by the nervous glance toward Sara’s room.

He knows what’s going on. He knows and he’s scared.

“Were you here all last night?”

“Most of it.” He moistens his lips with his tongue. “I came on just after eleven. No one came down the corridor while I was here.” He gestures at the silver flask next to him. “That stuff, it’s like rocket fuel.”

“You’re sure? You didn’t hear anything?”

“Nothing. Only guests, staff, coming back to their rooms.”

Elin presses her forefinger into her palm. Think, Elin, think. How could the attacker get into the room without being seen?

Could the killer be someone Margot or Sara knew? Perhaps Margot let them in unawares, meaning the attacker was able to get into the room without raising suspicion.

Elin thanks him and goes back to Sara’s room, scans the space again.

Am I missing anything?

Her gaze settles on the French doors.

She carefully makes her way toward them and stops just short of the doors themselves, bends down. Tipping her head at an angle, she looks at the floor.

Her pulse quickens. She can see the faint, smeared ghost of a footprint, where the wet sole print has dried, leaving a residue.

She straightens to examine the doorframe. There are small marks in the wood—they’d jimmied it open.

That’s how they got in.

Shaking her head, she feels a surge of frustration. The precautions they’d taken to keep people safe had made it easier for the killer, hadn’t they? By moving everyone onto the lower floors, it was easier to climb up. Easier to escape.

“Found something?” Cecile calls from the other side of the room.

Elin gives a sharp nod. “I think they came in through these doors.”

As she opens them, freezing air fills the room. With it comes the high-pitched whistle of the wind, a bitter blast of snow.

All she can see is white; the trees in the distance are bleached by snow.

When she scans the terrace, she can see straightaway that the snow has been disturbed—it’s compacted, a bumpy, uneven layer. Even though fresh snow has fallen on top, started to fill in some of the marks, she can still see definite compressions.

It’s hard to make out what it is—not footprints. Something bigger, wider.

Analyzing the blurred outline, she takes in the shape.

The marks start to resolve.

It’s the imprint of something big, heavy: a body.

Margot was dragged.

Elin processes it: if she was dragged out of the room, this implies she was sedated too.

A sharp jab of realization: They didn’t have long.

If they wanted to find her, they had to be quick. Based on the last two killings, the potential escalation, the killer would probably act fast. Ruthlessly.

She takes a deep breath, turns back to face Cecile and Sara. Before she even starts to speak, Sara shakes her head, a strangled noise coming from her throat.

“You think they’ve taken her, don’t you?” She buries her face in her hands. “The person who . . .” Sobs pull at her chest, shoulders.

Cecile puts an arm around her. “Look, let’s go down to the lounge, sit for a while. You’ve had a shock.” Glancing at Elin, she mouths: “Is that all right?”

Elin nods, her gaze already snapping back to the snow outside, and the curious flattened pattern of compressions.

If they’d gone out this way, the marks wouldn’t stop there, would they?

But the thought—obvious, too obvious—bothers her.

Surely the killer wouldn’t have been so stupid as to leave a trail? A way of tracking them down?

Unless they didn’t have a choice.

Perhaps the killer had needed to improvise, like they had in the penthouse. It’s possible they’d planned to get Margot out through the corridor, but something had gone wrong.

The other explanation, one that’s more likely, is that the killer is getting careless. Either way, it’s a lead. Something that might direct them to Margot.





69





It takes longer than she thinks to make her way back to her room, pull on her coat. Her fingers fumble over the room pass, her zipper, while her mind churns.

Is this a good idea? Should I even consider going out alone? Should I speak to Berndt first?

Elin immediately discounts the thought: contacting Berndt, talking him through it, will not only waste precious time but risk him forbidding her to look for Margot altogether. She knows that if she doesn’t contact him, she can’t be accused of explicitly defying any instructions.

Picking up some gloves together with several of the plastic bags Lucas provided, she pulls open the French doors, making her way out onto the terrace.

The outside world grabs her: her boots immediately sinking into the thick powder snow, the wind pulling her hair around her face.