The Sanatorium(88)

Elin double-checks to make sure it doesn’t carry on instead—stepping back, she walks several yards past the entrance, but there’s nothing there. The snow is thick, undisturbed.

It leaves her with only one conclusion: the killer must have taken Margot into the hotel. There’s no other explanation.

She picks her way toward the hotel entrance. The doors slide open automatically, sensing her presence. Her gaze flickers to the floor of the lobby.

Too late.

There’s no evidence of any dried footprints like there were in the room. The polished concrete is uniformly gleaming: it’s been cleaned.

It almost makes her smile: despite everything that’s happened, one of the staff had been instructed to clean the floor. Ritual, routine, it runs deep. Business as usual.

So where could they have gone?

The hotel had been searched when Laure went missing. There’s nowhere self-contained, private enough for the killer to be hiding, let alone holding the victims.

Elin can feel her heart hammering, acutely aware of the pressure weighing down on her. She needs to solve this. Time’s ticking.

So what are my next steps going to be?

They could search the hotel top to bottom, but there’s no guarantee they’ll find her.

It’s then it hits her: something stupid, obvious.

Margot’s phone.

Sara had confirmed that Margot’s phone was gone. There’s one tentative conclusion Elin can draw from that: Margot might have it with her. If she does, there’s a possibility of tracking her movements.

Elin turns, about to go into the hotel, when she sees something in one of the third-floor windows. She steadies her gaze.

There’s someone standing there, looking down, face tilted toward the glass.

Shifting position, she finds a better angle, where the light isn’t reflecting quite so strongly.

She can see the figure clearly now: a dark top, a mop of tousled blond hair.

Lucas.

He’s watching her, his gaze fixed, unmoving.





70





Margot’s phone?” Sara tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You think she’s got it on her?”

Elin leans back in her chair. “It’s possible. If she has, there might be a way of tracking it.” She knows that there is an app called Find My iPhone. Even if the phone had been switched off, or it’s run out of battery, it would show the last location where it had a signal.

She glances around the lounge. A group of staff is sitting several tables away. They’re talking among themselves, but she can sense their eyes on her, the unasked questions.

Cecile looks at her, her expression unreadable. “What if the killer’s just got rid of it?”

“Then we’re screwed.” Elin forces a smile. “But either way, we have to try.” Shifting position, her leg jolts the table, sends her coffee flying. The liquid tracks across the pale wood, already dripping over the edge and onto the floor. “Shit.”

Cecile jumps up, goes to the bar. Bringing back a cloth, she spreads it over the spill. She sits down, looks closely at Elin. “Is everything all right?”

“With me?” Elin frowns. “I’m fine. It was a shock, but it wasn’t that close. I think it more or less met the path of the last avalanche.”

“I know, but after we went to Sara’s room, I didn’t realize you were going to go outside in these conditions, start . . .” She trails off.

Elin tenses. “It was a risk, I know, but I had to.” She feels a familiar warmth chasing up her face. “I wanted to look outside, explore the scene.” Her voice is louder, shriller than she intended.

Beside her, Sara bites down on her lip, looks away.

“I just”—Cecile hesitates, still mopping up the spill, but the liquid is long absorbed—“I just don’t know if it was the right thing to do.” Her face twitches.

Elin looks at her, uncertain.

What’s she getting at?

She has the uncomfortable sensation of missing something: a layer to the conversation somehow vital to her comprehension.

But before she can reply, Cecile abruptly stands up, takes the sodden cloth back to the bar.

Deciding to ignore it, Elin turns to Sara. “Do you have Margot’s iCloud log-in?”

“I don’t know it, but I might be able to find it. I’m pretty sure she keeps her passwords in her diary.”

“Not exactly security conscious, then?”

“No.” Sara smiles weakly. “We were joking about it the other day. Her Apple account got hacked so she needed to change her password, but the new one was too hard to remember, so she wrote it down.”

“Do you know where her diary is?”

“Whose diary?” Cecile takes a seat beside them.

Sara hesitates. Her eyes lock on Elin’s, a flicker of understanding passing between them.

“Margot’s,” she says clearly. “She keeps it in her bag. I’ll show you.”



* * *



? ? ?

This feels weird—” Sara puts Margot’s bag on the bed, starts rummaging through it. “Like I’m invading her privacy.”

“I know,” Elin says softly. “But we need to do everything we can to find her.” She watches Sara pull the contents from the bag—purse, hair grips, a half-empty bottle of water, chewing gum. The final thing to emerge is a leather-bound notebook.