The Break-Up Retreat(50)

I won’t be able to use it directly, won’t be able to quote it in the article, for fear of violating Leyla and Pernilla’s privacy all over again. But it’s proof. It’s real, tangible proof. I can already feel the text beginning to unspool in my mind, paragraphs drafting themselves, weaving the web that will eventually ensnare both Martina and Himlafall and put an end to all of this.

You’ve seen the ads for the Himlafall Clinic. Smiling influencers with perfect skin telling you how the Hastings Method changed their life. Maybe it appeared on your phone screen late at night, in between swiping endlessly on the apps and staring at the tv; or maybe a friend sent it to you, joking that you should both go, take charge of your love lives once and for all.

You probably never did end up going for that stay at the Himlafall Clinic. The vast majority of the population would never be able to afford it. Maybe you felt jealous of the women who could, the ones who secured their spot and set off on a week-long journey to psychological health and future romantic bliss, a dream come true.

But for the women who actually checked in at the Himlafall Clinic, that dream would turn out to be a nightmare.

In the mirror, I see my own smile begin to fade.

I can still see their faces. Leyla, dull and listless; Clara, crying quietly, like a broken child; Pernilla, with decades and decades of desiccated rage painted on her face and neck in violent red splotches.

I wasn’t supposed to care about them. The other patients. They were supposed to be sources, nothing more, the subjects of interviews and the anonymized stories that would make my case for the article.

My dad always told me not to get close to anyone while on a story.

You have to think of them as characters, princess, not people. The moment they become people, you lose objectivity.

But how can I think of them as anything but people, now that I’m one of them? Until the end of the week, we are stuck in this twisted funhouse together. And none of this is theoretical to them.

I wish I could tell them. I wish I could trust them.

But all I can do is hope that this works out. That whatever evidence I got today, and whatever evidence I might find tonight, is going to be enough.

I push my hair back from my face, and I reach for the recorder. Turning it on, I peer down at the tiny little screen and use my thumb to switch it over to the file with the voice notes.

I bring it to my mouth, and I start talking.

“This is my third day at Himlafall,” I say. “Things have gotten worse. Last night, I saw someone watching me through the window, and after trying to find who the culprit was, they chased me down. When I came back, my phone had gone missing. I can only conclude that someone here doesn’t want me to be in contact with the outside world.”

I stop, trying to gather my thoughts.

“I went through the second group therapy session this morning,” I continue. “And it . . .”

I don’t know how to express what happened in that room. The sheer, overwhelming pressure in it. The feeling that we were seconds away from disaster. Like microscopic fractures spreading through glass, invisible to the naked eye.

“It looks like the doctor is . . . breaking the other patients,” I try. “Breaking them down on purpose. Finding their pressure points and then digging in, until they are pliable, and desperate, and willing to give up their autonomy. Today, she broke medical privacy twice, revealing the personal information of two of the patients and revealing their sensitive information to the group as a whole. I can’t be sure what the end goal is. But—”

There is a knock on the door.

I drop the recorder, the clattering of it hitting the floor making me jump. I hold my breath, hoping I imagined it.

“Isobel?” A muffled voice through the wood. “Are you in there?”





Chapter 28


I take two quick steps out of the bathroom and toss the recorder in under the bed as I yell out:

“Yeah, I’m here, one second!”

When I open the door, the caretaker, Anna, is standing outside.

“I hope I didn’t wake you up?” She frowns, a look of concern on her face.

“No, of course not.” I shake my head and, remembering my lie from earlier, put my hand over my lower stomach. “I’ve just been doing breathing exercises. Trying to work through the pain.”

“Can I come in?” Anna asks.

She’s holding a small white paper bag and a bottle of water. Her white-blond hair is down, pulled out of its usual ponytail, the blunt edges of it brushing against her linen-clad shoulders.

“Sure.” I step back from the door.

“Are you sure you weren’t asleep?” Anna asks, walking into the cabin and looking around. “I thought I heard you talking. I figured you were dreaming.”

She turns around, staring at me.

“I was just, uh . . .” I go for a sheepish smile. “I was talking to myself. It’s stupid, I know. I do it sometimes, when I’m alone.”

Anna shakes her head.

“No, it’s not stupid at all!” she exclaims. “I do it, too. Last year, I was on my own for, like, months, and I kept talking to myself just to keep myself company. I think it was just because I was so used to having someone around, you know? After my ex left me, it got really lonely. I was so used to having someone to talk to, so I just started talking to myself instead.”