The Break-Up Retreat(26)

“Either way, I really want to participate,” I insist.

Anna bites her cheek, and frowns.

“Ellen said she couldn’t take responsibility for such a severe injury,” she says. “She was worried about the potential of making it worse.”

“But there is no injury.” I’m having a hard time keeping the frustration from distorting my voice.

“I don’t know if anything can be done today.” Anna frowns, biting her lip. “But if you talk to the doctor about it, I’m sure your file can be adjusted so that it’ll all be taken care of by tomorrow. Is that okay?”

I swallow, hard, twice; and then I nod.

“Yeah.” I twist my lips into a smile. “That’s fine.”

Anna exhales.

“Again, I’m so sorry,” she says. “Try not to let it ruin your day. We can’t dwell on anger and resentment. The world is full of little accidents. Most of them turn out to be happy if you wait long enough.”

“Oh,” Clara interrupts, “that’s from Martina’s book, isn’t it?”

Anna smiles.

“Yes. From her second one. Chapter six.”

Katarina puts her hand on my arm as they start talking about the genius of Martina Hastings.

“I’m going for a run after lunch, if you want to come with me.” She smiles, all sympathy. “I get it. I lose my mind when I don’t get to work out.”

I echo her smile.

“Thanks,” I say. “I might take you up on that.”

I already know that I won’t.

One thing Anna said stood out to me.

Ellen said she couldn’t take responsibility for such a severe injury.

Ellen is a physical therapist. So is Sandra. I’ve heard Sandra talk about her job enough to know that that is bullshit.

Was there really a mistake in my file? Or did Ellen make that up, knowing no one would check, so that I wouldn’t be able to ask her any more questions?

I’m not going to go running. I’m going to go to the staff quarters and ask Ellen about Susannah Wallin.





Chapter 15


I wait until the others have left the dining hall before starting toward the staff quarters.

Sandra told me that the quarters are nice enough, that they are offered as a perk since the job is on-site. I should have asked her if they are locked during the day, if it’s possible to access them, but I didn’t, because the plan was for her to be here with me from the start.

I curse internally, bright sunshine beating down from above, making my eyes sting. I feel exposed; this would feel more appropriate under the cover of darkness.

When I come around the corner, I see that the curtains have been drawn at every window. The lingonberry bushes by the wall are beginning to bloom, small, green buds clustering, still hard and skeptical, yet unconvinced of the coming spring.

I stop, hesitating.

The sudden, creeping fear prickling along my scalp feel incongruent with the beautiful surroundings. The sky so high and blue, the gentle rippling of the pond.

No one knows I’m here. No one knows I’ve gone to speak to Ellen.

If she did leave that note—if she did, in fact, do something to Susannah Wallin, for whatever reason—how far might she be willing to go to keep that secret?

My feet feel rooted to the ground.

Should I tell someone?

No. I can’t. I knew this would be risky; this is my chosen profession. I heard so many stories growing up about my father, undercover in risky situations, and I idolized him.

Though knowing what I know now, that so many of those stories were lies—knowing, in the end, when he mattered, he was a coward—doesn’t inspire much confidence.

I draw a deep breath.

I am not my father. I am better than that.

I walk up to the door, but just as I’m about to grab the door handle, the door swings inward, and I take a step back, surprised.

Belinda is standing in the doorway, blinking at me.

“Isobel!” she says, smile sliding into place, seemingly without effort. “What are you doing here?”

“I . . .”

Belinda cocks her head.

“Is everything all right?” she asks.

She’s got such a symmetrical face. It’s strangely mesmerizing. Every freckle seems perfectly dotted into place, every eyebrow hair growing at the exact right angle.

“Yes,” I say. “I was looking for Ellen. The physical therapist?”

“Why?” Belinda asks, frowning while still smiling.

The effect is disconcerting.

“I wanted to talk to her about . . . my knees,” I say. “Apparently there was a mistake with my intake form. I want to partake in the physical therapy.”

Belinda steps out onto the small porch and closes the door decisively behind her. The clicking of the mechanism falling into place sounds like a gunshot.

Belinda steps up to me and puts both her hands on my upper arms. She looks into my eyes, her gaze ever so worried.

“What’s going on, Isobel?” she asks me.

“Nothing.” The weight of her hands on my arms makes me feel uneasy. “I just wanted to clear up the misunderstanding.”

“You know patients aren’t allowed in the staff quarters.” It’s not a question, yet Belinda adds: “Right, Isobel?”