The Break-Up Retreat(54)

ISOBEL ANDERSSEN

“I’ve found my own file.”

Pulling it out, gingerly, I lay it flat on the floor and open it up.

That’s my intake form, all right. But there, at the very top, is a bright-blue Post-it note.

FORGOT TO MENTION KNEE INJURY NOT COVERED ON INTAKE FOR. EXEMPT FROM PHYSICAL THERAPY.



I stare at it.

“So, I . . .” I search for the words. “It seems like someone added a note to my file. I was told I had crossed off the wrong box on the intake form, giving the staff the impression that I had an injury that would prevent me from doing any exercise, but it seems like . . . someone added a note in later.”

I lean in closer, pull the Post-it off the page and hold it up. I look from the note to the folders still in the drawer.

The handwriting doesn’t match.

“I don’t know who wrote this.” I keep talking automatically. Anna was right, after all; there is something comforting about talking to myself.

“But whoever added the note seems like they were trying to keep me away from the physical therapist, Ellen. The one who recognized the name Susannah Wallin.” I pause, and then I say:

“Maybe it was her, all along. Maybe she was the one who added the note. If it was, she has already left, and I might not be able to get any more information about her on location. It’s possible my”—I almost say Sandra’s name before correcting myself. I can’t leave any trail that might give her away.

—“contact might be able to find out more.”

I turn the pages in the folder, until I get to Martina’s notes, and then I stop, slightly mesmerized.

There is something so fascinating about reading about yourself, seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes. I’m here as a journalist, sure, but I’m only human.

My eyes skim over the words.

First impressions . . . avoidant attachment . . . possible secondary reasons for coming . . .

I turn the page again.

There, at the top of the next page, are the words:

Problems with lying. Makes up connections. May present a problem. Keep away from Anna as much as possible.



I blink.

“I, uh . . .” I don’t know how to describe what I’m seeing. “There is an instruction here in my folder calling me a liar and saying to keep me away from a specific member of the staff.” I try to gather my thoughts.

“I don’t know why Martina thinks I should be kept away from this staff member,” I say, halting, then continuing. “I have gotten the impression that the staff member in question might be less dedicated to the clinic than others who work here.”

Are they worried I might get to her, somehow? Worried I might convince her to spill any secrets?

“I don’t know if—” I begin to say, but I go instantly quiet when I hear something.

The front door. Opening and closing.

I feel my stomach dropping.

Shit.

If I’m lucky . . . no, there is no good scenario here. There is only bad and worse.

Bad would be Anna or Belinda coming back from dinner to take up their shift at reception.

Worse would be Martina, back from her meeting with Sandra, heading for her office.

I put my file back in the drawer, close it as quietly as possible, turn the recorder off and stuff it down my pocket again.

There are no steps coming this way. That’s good; that means it’s most likely Anna or Belinda.

I’m still sitting on the floor, my knees beginning to ache. I cast a glance up toward the window, wondering if there is any way I can crawl out of it.

Maybe. But if I do that, they might hear me climbing out, see me running away; and, besides, I will have no way of closing it properly behind me again. It will be obvious someone was in here, and given what I just read, I bet I’ll be at the top of their list of suspects.

My breathing is fast and shallow, my eyes skidding from one side of the room to the other. There has to be a good way out of here, something I haven’t thought about.

I can try waiting here, hoping for a window.

But what happens if I linger for half an hour, and Martina then decides to pop by, do some late-night work? She insists on her Instagram that she doesn’t need more than five hours of sleep per night, after all.

And I’m supposed to meet Sandra in the woods in less than two hours.

No. I have to get out, now.

I get up, standing silently behind the desk for a second.

Then I walk as quietly as I can toward the door.

Just as I am about to open it, I freeze.

Footsteps. Down the hall. Coming closer.

Potential explanations run through my head at lightning speed, some way to get out of this, some way to explain my presence. I’m sleepwalking again. I’m looking for some evening therapy. I went for a walk and developed spontaneous agoraphobia, taking shelter in the closest possible room.

But the footsteps don’t reach me.

I hear a door opening, closing. The clicking of a lock.

The bathroom.

Maybe guardian angels really do exist. If so, mine is working overtime tonight.

I slip out of the door, walking as quickly and as quietly as I can down the hallway, heart pounding, palms clammy, and then I wait by the front door, unmoving.

The seconds seem to stretch into years.

And then—sweet mercy—the sound of flushing.