The Break-Up Retreat(43)

“We should look into the records, too.” Sandra is chewing on her thumbnail. “Patient records. They are an absolute mess, the recordkeeping here is garbage, but we might be able to dig up Susannah’s file if it’s still there.”

“There was something weird about my file, too, apparently,” I interrupt her. “I’d like to have a look at it.”

“I have a meeting with Martina tonight at seven,” Sandra says. “I’ll ask her to have the meeting in the staff quarters, in the conference room. That way you can sneak into her office. Don’t take anything, I don’t want her to notice—but take pictures. You still have the phone, right?”

An echo of fright makes my fingertips tingle, the shadowy memory of last night pressing in on me.

“No, I—”

I’m interrupted by a knock on the window.





Chapter 24


Sandra jumps. I yelp at the sight of the familiar face through the window.

“Hey!” Clara’s voice is distorted by the glass. “Is this your friend, Isobel?”

Sandra has gone stark white. I open the door and swing my legs out, stand up so quickly I get dizzy, tiny black spots dancing at the edges of my vision, taunting me.

“Hey, Clara.” I steady myself with an arm on the roof of the car. It’s gritty with dust and pollen from the drive.

Sandra gets out on the other side, and she thrusts her hand out at Clara.

“Hi!” Her voice is different; slightly lower in pitch, though still chipper. It must be her work voice. I realize I’ve never heard it before.

“I’m Sandra. I’m the new physical therapist. I’m taking over for Ellen.”

“What happened to Ellen?” Clara frowns, looking from Sandra to me, as though we’ve done something to Ellen. Gotten rid of her.

“Her shift up here is over.” I hear Sandra smiling politely, though I can’t see her face.

The sunlight is stinging my eyes, and I blink rapidly as I close the car door and walk around the hood to Clara.

“Wait.” Clara looks from Sandra to me. “So you guys are friends?”

“No.” Sandra is too quick to deny it. “No, we’re not.”

She’s never been a very good liar. Her shoulders pulled up to her ears, her arms crossed in front of her chest, she looks exactly like what she is: spiky, guilty, and defensive.

“Clara.” I keep my voice low, and I grimace as I lean into the younger woman. “Sandra kind of broke a rule for me. It was really nice of her, but I don’t want to get her in trouble. Would you mind keeping this between us?”

Clara’s eyes glimmer with interest.

“What rule?”

She’s lowered her voice, too; that feels like a good sign.

“I almost passed out on the way back from breakfast,” I say. “Period cramps. Real bad ones. Sandra had just pulled in, and she let me sit in her car and rest until I felt better.”

Her eyebrows climb higher.

“That’s it?”

“. . . and staff aren’t supposed to let any patients into staff quarters,” I add hastily. “Their personal cars are included in that. She was just doing a nice thing. I don’t want her getting punished for that.”

“Well.” Clara seems to weigh her options. “The rules are there to be followed.”

“Come on, Clara,” I urge her. “We’re supposed to take care of each other, right? Have each other’s backs? That’s what the, uh, Himlafall philosophy is all about.”

Clara looks at me. There is a shift, in her face, a twitch in her lips, almost like a sneer; but then it’s gone, and she looks sweet as summer again.

“Of course.” Clara turns to Sandra. “Just make sure not to push me too hard in physical therapy, all right? Quid pro quo?”

She laughs, and Sandra laughs with her, forced to the point of sounding painful.

“You better get a move on, though,” Clara says. “Group therapy starts in a little bit. I don’t think you get to skip it just because you’ve got cramps.”

“. . . sure,” I agree.

Clara gives a little wave.

“Your secret is safe with me,” she tells us, and again, that whisper of a smile seems to flit across her face, like she’s amused at some private joke, before she turns and leaves.

Sandra and I remain standing there, completely quiet, until Clara has rounded the corner of the main building and disappeared behind it.

“Jesus fuck ,” Sandra curses, and when I turn to her she’s pinched her eyes closed.

“She won’t say anything,” I attempt to reassure her, but she shakes her head.

“We’re idiots.” Her voice sounds pained. “I shouldn’t have let you in the car. I kept saying how important it was to be discreet, and—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt her. “Okay? It was a reasonable story. Just repeat it if anyone asks.”

“What about when the article comes out, Isobel?” Sandra sounds like she wants to be shouting, her voice forced into a growl. “What then? They were never supposed to know we had any connection. Your name will be in the byline, Isobel. It won’t be that difficult putting two and two together.”