The Sanatorium(89)

“This is it. She doesn’t use an actual diary.” After flicking through the pages, Sara stops near the front of the book. “There.” She points to the top of the page. “I think this is the password.”

Elin reaches for her phone, and finds the iCloud Find My iPhone function. “Do you know her e-mail?”

“Give me a second—” Sara scrolls rapidly through her own phone. “[email protected].”

“And the password?” Elin reads it off the notebook, simultaneously tapping it into the second box in the middle of the screen.

The blue home screen resolves into a faint outline of a compass, which in turn becomes a white grid. The grid morphs into a map, zooming in to show road names, landmarks. Within seconds, a green dot appears.

We’ve got something.

Elin can feel the raised beat of her heart. Rapid contractions. Hovering over the green dot with her finger, she presses down.

A line of text: Margot’s iPhone. Below that: 40 minutes ago.

“You’ve located her phone?”

“Yes.”

Sara stares at the screen. “It’s somewhere here, isn’t it? Somewhere in the hotel.”





71





Can you pinpoint where?” Narrowing her eyes, Elin examines the map on the phone, struggling to orient the hotel layout in her head.

“I think so.” Cecile points to the middle of the screen. “You can’t see room-level detail, but the area of the hotel is near the spa, the generator rooms.”

A flicker of excitement: progress. “Do I need a special pass to access it?”

“No. The one I’ve given you covers everywhere in the building.” There’s a slight edge to Cecile’s voice. Elin can tell she wants to say something more, is debating whether she should.

Finally, she speaks. “You’re sure you want to go now?” A brief ripple of emotion moves through her features. Elin can’t tell what it is.

“Yes.” Elin looks at her, frustrated. Why the lack of urgency?

Cecile is chewing her lip. “Do you mind if I call Lucas, speak to him about it?”

Elin shrugs, tensing. She knows she’s not doing a very good job at hiding her annoyance, but she’d never been any good at diplomacy. She always let things pick away at her, fester, took them so deep inside, they imprinted themselves on her face.

Blueprints of emotion.

Cecile’s speaking into the phone in rapid French. A few moments later, she turns back, slips her phone into her pocket, her expression troubled.

“Lucas doesn’t think you should do this on your own.” Her mouth is tight. “Put yourself in a vulnerable situation.”

“What do you mean?” Elin falters.

“He thinks it’s too risky.” Cecile’s speaking slowly, as if she’s speaking to someone stupid. “I—” She breaks off, flushing. “Look, it’s hard to say this, but I agree with him. You’ve been a huge help, but after what’s happened to Laure, to you, you’re probably not in the right frame of mind to take on anything now. I think we should wait for the police.”

“The police?” Elin repeats, incredulous. “But we know they’re not coming, not soon, anyway.” She curls up her hand under the table, squeezes hard so that she can feel her nails nudging against her palm. A warning: Don’t lose it. Don’t say something you might regret.

“So you’ve called Berndt? Told him about Margot?”

Elin shakes her head. “Not yet.”

Cecile looks back at her, her gaze steadfast, neutral. Something loaded is carried in the glance. “I’m sorry.” Her palms are raised, apologetic. “I’m going to have to be honest. I didn’t want to be the one to say this, but Lucas . . . he’s found out about your job.”

“My job?” Her mouth is dry. They know.

Cecile nods. “Lucas found out earlier that you’re on extended leave. He’s uncomfortable with you carrying on in the circumstances. You didn’t mention it. If you’d have told us, explained . . .”

“But that doesn’t affect my ability to help you.” Elin’s heart is lunging in her chest: hard, knocking thuds.

They’ve found me out, exposed me as a fraud.

“I’m sorry,” Cecile repeats, dropping her gaze. “It’s Lucas’s call.” There’s a grim finality to her tone.

Elin glances down at the floor, trying to tamp her anger down. Familiar doubts start crowding her head, jostling for position.

Are they right? Is my judgment flawed?

She stands up. “I’m going to my room.”

She walks away, concentrating carefully on each step, as if any break in rhythm would shatter her self-control, force her back to the room full of angry recriminations.





72





Calm down,” Will murmurs. “Just tell me exactly what she said.”

Pacing, she walks down the length of their room toward the window and back again. “That she didn’t think I should carry on, look for Margot. That I’m ‘not in the right frame of mind.’” She fumbles, the memory of Cecile’s words making her face burn. “They found out, Will. That I’m on leave . . .”