The Break-Up Retreat(14)

Being off-balance and tired has never done much for my sense of impulse control.

I look straight at Ellen and Belinda, and I say, as casually as I can muster:

“It was recommended to me by a former patient. Susannah Wallin?”

Ellen looks confused. Confused, or . . . stricken.

She opens her mouth to speak, but Belinda stops her with a hand on her arm. Whispers something to her.

Ellen turns to Belinda and begins to say:

“What . . . ?”

Just then, Anna comes walking out the doors.

“I’m sorry that took so long, ladies,” she says. “Martina has something she needed to take care of, so she won’t be able to join us for dessert. But it’s on its way now.”

Anna beams at us.

“I hope you still have room for brownies!”

The anticlimactic disappointment nearly makes me dizzy. I bite down, not allowing it to show, swallowing my frustration.

It doesn’t matter that Anna interrupted. Because I saw it.

Ellen recognized the name. She had heard it before. She was surprised to hear me mention Susannah Wallin.

And of course she was.

Because Susannah disappeared without a trace after her week at the Himlafall Clinic, nine months ago.





Chapter 7


When I make it back to my own cabin, I shut the door behind me and reach to lock it, only to realize there is no key to twist.

I stare at it for a few seconds, as though I’ve only just missed it, as though it’ll appear if I just look for it a little harder.

I remember Anna unlocking the door to the cabin; I just assumed it could be locked from the inside as well.

There is a cold, swirling sensation, deep down in my belly. I swallow, again and again, against the rising nausea.

Sandra isn’t here. I’m all alone, out here in the woods, with a door I can’t lock.

No. I can’t let myself panic. I’ve worked too hard; there is too much on the line.

I walk over to the window and look out.

The stars are twinkling gently outside, thin clouds like gentle brushes of paint over the deep-blue sky. The trees on the other side of the pond are completely still. They hardly look real, the dense darkness erasing any sense of dimension, as though were they nothing but a backdrop to whatever is happening here.

The surface of the pond is still. There is no wind at all. It feels like the woods surrounding us are holding their breath, waiting to exhale.

After a few seconds, I get down on my knees on the floor, dig out the phone from my suitcase, and turn it on. I briefly glance up at the window, and then I crawl back behind the chair, sitting with my back to it, so that I won’t be visible from the window.

The cheap, used iPhone takes almost a minute to turn on. I bought it a few days ago, in a transaction that made me feel very much like I was doing something illicit. I wondered, briefly, in the store, if the cashier thought I was a drug dealer but came to the somewhat depressing conclusion that he probably thought I was too old and uncool to do anything as subversive as sell cocaine.

Once the phone has turned on, I go to the list of contacts. I’ve programmed in only two numbers—Armin’s and Sandra’s.

I press one, push the phone against my ear, and wait, teeth gnawing on the chewed-up cuticle on my left thumb. My fingers already look like they’ve been put through a meat grinder, after the anxiety of the last few days.

No response.

Jesus, she probably isn’t picking up because she doesn’t recognize the number.

I pull the phone away and type:

This is Isobel. Please call me back right now.

About thirty seconds after I’ve sent the text, the phone begins to shout out a polyphonic version of “Auld Lang Syne.” I answer as quickly as possible, reminding myself to set it to silent.

“Sandra?” I answer the call.

“Hey, Isobel,” I hear Sandra’s voice from the other end of the line. “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up. I thought it was a spam call.”

“It’s my . . . burner phone,” I say, feeling mildly silly.

“Yeah, I got that now.” She’s speaking in a hushed tone. “What’s up?”

“What’s up is that I’m at Himlafall, and you’re not here,” I hiss into the phone.

“I know,” Sandra says. “I texted you this afternoon, but I guess they had already taken your phone.”

“Yes,” I confirm. “They did.”

“Look,” Sandra says, “Andrea got sick this morning. Martin doesn’t get back into town for another two days. I know we had a plan, but she’s my kid, Isobel. I’m not going to just leave her here when she’s not feeling well.”

“I know that.” I rub my eyes with two fingers, feeling how dry and tired they are, and I nod, despite the fact that she can’t see me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like . . . I don’t know.”

“It’ll be fine,” Sandra assures me. “I’ll be there the day after tomorrow. Wednesday, at the latest. We’ll still have time.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Of course it will be,” I say.

A brief pause. I hear what sounds like Sandra walking in the background, and then her voice, now with an edge to it:

“So you’ve met the doctor now?”