The Break-Up Retreat(33)

“It was almost like . . .” I smack my lips, and then I laugh, suddenly self-conscious. “Fuck, I’m going to sound crazy here. I know none of it is real. She’s just really good at making people feel like she knows them. That’s how she manages to get people to spend their life’s savings on this retreat.”

“But?” Armin encourages me.

“. . . but, it really felt like she knew things, today,” I admit. “Things she couldn’t possibly know.”

Armin hums.

“You know,” he says, “just because she might be a fraud and maybe a pseudo-cult leader doesn’t mean she can’t be good at her job.”

I bark out a laugh.

“Sure. Psychologist of the year.”

“Well, I have been telling you to go to therapy.” Armin grins. “Maybe this could be a two birds kind of deal.”

“Fuck off.”

He laughs.

It makes me feel ever so slightly more like a person. Like myself.

“Sorry about the whining. It’s just been a very weird twenty-four hours. Sandra’s not here, and I got this note, and—”

“Hold on,” Armin interrupts me. “Sandra’s not there?”

His voice pitches higher.

I waver; feel the want to keep it from him, to not have him worry, not ask for help, not ask for anything but a few moments of his attention and his smile.

But he needs to know. He needs to know in case things go bad.

As they very well could.

“Andrea got sick,” I admit to him. “She’ll be here soon. Tomorrow. Or the day after, at the latest.”

“Isobel.” His voice is a warning.

“It’s fine,” I try to reassure him. “I just need to stick it out on my own for a few more days.”

“It’s not fine!” Armin rubs his face, and I see him taking a deep breath, visibly trying to calm down.

“Isobel, it’s not fine at all. You could get killed.”

“I won’t . . .” I go quiet, then shake my head. “I’m being careful, is my point.”

“You’ve been there for a day,” Armin reminds me, “and you say this woman—Martina—has already started to get to you. Who’s to say it won’t get worse? You were supposed to have Sandra with you. She was supposed to have your back. Keep you sane.”

“I’m not going to go insane without Sandra here,” I protest, feeling my hackles rising.

“I’m not saying that,” Armin says, and I bite back:

“That was exactly what you said.”

A moment of silence. Shorter than a breath; longer than it should be.

“I’m sorry.” Armin looks sorry, though not quite sorry enough for my taste.

“I know you don’t like this.” I don’t want to argue, because I know he didn’t mean anything by what he said, and because I’m fairly certain I won’t win.

“I know you think I’m taking a big risk, and I am. But I’m here, and I’m calling you to tell you, and I’m making progress. There really is something here. There is so much more going on here than just Sandra not having shown up.”

“Like what?” Armin asks.

“I put Susannah’s name out there, as a feeler,” I begin. “Last night. And one of the employee’s clearly recognized the name.”

“Really?” Curiosity always gets the better of him.

“Yeah.” I nod, for emphasis. “The other physical therapist had a big reaction. And I haven’t been able to get a hold of her yet. I think she’s avoiding me on purpose. And then, last night . . .”

I hesitate. I don’t want to freak him out worse than I already have, but equal parts fear over what happened and excitement over my findings win out.

“Someone slid a note under my door. Telling me that it’s too late and I should go home.”

“They what?” Armin’s face freezes.

“I know, it’s weird.” I sound too enthusiastic; I need to pull back. “But that proves there really is something here. I was right, Armin. Something happened here. Or is still happening. And I must be onto it, or whoever left that note wouldn’t have felt the need to do so.”

He is very still on the screen. For a moment, I think I’ve lost the signal.

“Armin?”

“I’m still here.” His voice is quiet. Too quiet. He’s not a quiet man; he wasn’t a quiet boy, either.

“Listen—” I begin, but he shakes his head.

“Please, just hear me out, Isobel,” he pleads with me. The tenor of his words, the set of his mouth, it all makes my stomach clench.

“Just . . . please be careful, all right? I know you want to expose this place. I know you want to build a name for yourself. I know this is important to you, and I know how much work you’ve put into it. I’m not going to ask you to come home, but can you promise me that you’ll be safe? That you’ll leave if things get more dangerous? Because I’m trying to be supportive, I really am, but all this, it just makes me feel like . . .” I can see him swallowing, the muscles in his throat working.

“It makes me feel like,” he continues, his voice gravelly, “I can see the worst coming, on the horizon, and I can’t do anything to stop it. There are no barricades I can build and no evacuation procedures I can follow and no good advice I can give. And frankly, that scares the shit out of me.”