The Sanatorium(96)

But they won’t. Nor will her eyes. They’re stuck too.

Stuck on Sam’s body in the rock pool, his T-shirt swollen by the water, the breeze catching it, making it ripple like some obscene balloon.

His legs catch the sway of the water, a ragged flag of seaweed snagging on his ankle. Her bucket falls from her hand: a loud crack on the rock below.

Seaweed-water spools between the clusters of limpets and barnacles. Crabs are on the march, shrimps body-popping against the rock, desperately seeking water.

It’s then her mind hooks on something.

Zooms in. Stuck on one action, on loop:

Bucket falling from hand. Bucket falling from hand.

She reaches up, grips the necklace tightly, fingers closing around the curve of the hook, her heart thudding as the memory shakes loose the echo of another.

A similar action.

Something dropping to the floor.

In the scuffle between Will and Margot, something had dropped onto the floor.

She closes her eyes and the memory fleshes out: the two of them grappling, the grunts, heavy breaths, and among that, something more muted.

A soft thud, a scrape of something scudding along the floor.

Elin sits up, reaches for her water. As she takes a long drink, her mind teases the thought apart.

What could it be? What had fallen to the floor?





78





You’re sure about this?” Isaac’s voice is light, but his eyes are wary. “After everything that’s happened? You weren’t in a good way when I left.” Turning back to the bedside table, he picks up his coffee and drains it.

His face looks gray in the half-light, his curls matted and flattened.

Behind him, the room is in disarray; the sheets are torn back, cups littering the bedside table. Elin feels a sharp pang of guilt: he’s grieving, barely coping, and now she’s laying this on him.

“I can’t leave it.” She pushes the thought away. “I heard something drop, I’m certain of it. We’ve got to at least go and look.”

“But surely, if there was anything there, we’d have seen it when we were helping Will.” His eyes track across her face. “A whole group of us were down there. If someone else had found it, they’d have told us.”

Elin picks apart his muted reaction, the carefully neutral expression. He thinks she’s overtired, clutching at straws.

There’s an awkward silence.

She’s suddenly aware of how she must look—her face clammy, damp with sweat, her hair mussed from a disturbed sleep.

A flush creeps up her face.

“Not necessarily.” She runs a hand through her hair, tries to flatten it. “All we were concentrating on was helping Will. Something could easily have gone unnoticed.”

“Either way,” Isaac says carefully. “This probably isn’t the right call. Margot’s most likely here, somewhere in the hotel. She left the room, escaped. It’s too risky.” He hesitates. “It’s not only that. What about Will? Shouldn’t you be with him?”

Elin feels her shoulders tighten—another wave of guilt.

He’s right.

She should be with Will. It’s the least she can do after what happened, but the urge to follow her instincts is too strong.

“When I left, he was still asleep. He’s been fine all night. Sara’s messaged me, said she’ll look in on him in a minute, and this . . . it won’t take long.” She stops, wincing at her own words.

Self-justification of the worst, most selfish kind.

“You’re sure?” Isaac reaches for a sweater, pulls it over his head.

“Yes. The fact that Margot went for me . . . it proves this isn’t the end of it. She wanted me out of the way because she’s got something else planned.”

His eyes flick past her to the window. “I still think you should wait. The forecast says it might break later today. The police might be able to get here.”

“It doesn’t look like it.” Elin glances outside. It’s still dark, but the outside lights illuminate the snow plummeting from the sky—thick, oversized flakes. “And we can’t afford to wait. How Margot spoke, I can tell that this is something personal. It’s revenge.”

Isaac’s eyes drift then come to rest on the chair a few feet away.

Elin follows his gaze. Laure’s leather jacket, slung across the arm.

Something shifts in his expression.

He gives a quick, decisive nod. “Okay. Let’s do it.” His eyes are burning with an emotion that’s beyond anger. It’s something raw, darker, deeply personal.





79





The lights are now working in the generator room. Under the harsh neon glow, the space is different—sterile, inert, the thrumming machinery blandly functional rather than sinister.

Weaving through the equipment ahead of her, Isaac turns. “She attacked Will toward the back of the room, didn’t she?”

She nods. “We’re not far from it, though.” A few feet on and Elin can see it: blood. Will’s blood. Inching toward it, her stomach contracts.

The tiles are streaked with red—messy smears from where the staff had lifted Will. Faint bloody footprints reach outward before trailing to nothing.

Elin forces herself to take a deep breath. “If something was dropped, it must be somewhere here.” Her eyes scour the floor, the gaps between the bulky apparatuses.