The Break-Up Retreat(55)

I push the door open, praying the sound will be covered by the rushing water through the pipes, and now I can no longer stop myself from running; despite the pain in my feet, I jog all the way back to my cabin, not stopping until, out of breath and sweating, I close the door behind me and sink to the floor in front of it.

I sit there for a few seconds before raising my eyes to the analog clock on the bedside table.

It reads 8:27. A little more than an hour and a half to go.

“Well, Sandra,” I whisper, “at least I’ll have something to tell you.”





Chapter 30


The wind begins to pick up around nine. At first, I hear it as a staccato of short, sharp bursts; then, it gets stronger, forcing its way through the wooden planks in the walls, a high-pitched whine like tortured, distant wailing.

I haven’t dared take any notes, in case someone might find them; so instead, I’ve been sitting on the bed, going over everything in my head. What I saw, what I’ve heard, what I need to ask Sandra about.

The note under my door. The Post-it in my file. The warning about keeping me away from Anna. The zolpidem, and the possibility that the staff might be giving the patients more than just herbal tea.

My thoughts are spinning. My eyes feel dry, the skin over my forehead stretched too tight. I try to massage my own scalp but find that it’s much less satisfying doing it yourself than having someone do it to you. Like so many other things.

The hands on the clock on the bedside table are showing twenty minutes to ten. The smell of cheap vanilla shampoo from the shower I took to pass the time is still lingering in the air, my hair hanging damp around my ears.

God, I wish I still had my phone. I wish I could talk to Armin.

Though I know what he would say.

Opening my mouth, I try to imitate his voice, lowering my own.

“Don’t go, Isobel. This has all gotten too fucking weird. This isn’t a game. Just go to bed, and then, tomorrow morning, get in your car and drive home.”

The attempt at imitating my best friend’s voice dies out, and toward the end, I’m just speaking to myself, as myself.

I swallow, hard.

It’s dark outside. Darker than it was last night. Clouds must have rolled in after sunset. Sitting here, it’s almost like I can smell it in the air; distant rain, coming closer by the second.

I read somewhere once that humans are better at smelling rain than sharks are at smelling blood. I wonder if it’s true.

The whining in the walls increases. If I was superstitious, I’d think the cabin was haunted. That the voice of Susannah Wallin was ringing out from the beyond, trying to warn me.

Get out.

Jesus. I’ve got goosebumps. I have to stop thinking about this. I’m just getting myself worked up for no reason.

I bury my head in my hands, draw a deep breath, forcing the air down as low as I can. I tell myself I’m not actually scared. That it’s nothing but leftover adrenaline from almost getting caught, and the tension of the last few days.

All I want is to crawl under the blankets and sleep for sixteen hours. And hopefully, miraculously, wake up in my own bed, with the coffee stains on the mattress and the mild smell of mildew wafting in from the bathroom.

But I can’t. I have to go and meet Sandra. Wind or no wind. Ghost or no ghost.

I throw a glance over at the clock again. A quarter to ten.

It’s almost time.

I scoot over to the edge of the bed, reach down and grab for the sweater on the floor. While bent over, I glimpse the recorder, hidden once more under the bed, and I pull it out.

Looking at the black rectangle in my hand, I feel slightly silly for a second. But the tension in my shoulders, the weight over my chest, is enough to make me hold in the button.

I bring it close to my mouth and say:

“My name is Isobel Lindschold. I’m a journalist. I am here at Himlafall undercover as a patient.”

I pause, swallow, and continue.

“I am about to go meet my . . . contact in the woods, in order to talk and come up with a plan for the next few days. But . . . if you’re listening to this . . . then you’ve heard the other things I’ve listed. The things that have been happening.”

I close my eyes, breathing out hard through my nose.

“I’m worried I’m not going to come back,” I say, words rattling out rapidly. No time to hesitate. “If you find this, please let people know. It’s ten minutes to ten, April 16. The year is 2024.”

I release the button.

What is this going to do? Who would find it?

The cleaning crew, most likely. And they would just hand it over to Martina.

But it’s something.

It’s all I can do, for now.

I push the recorder under my pillow, and I pull the sweater over my long-sleeved T-shirt. The sleeves bunch uncomfortably under the thick woolen knit of the sweater.

It’s time.

The wind almost throws the door back as I open it. The temperature has dropped significantly in only a couple of hours; the outside is pitch-black, the cold cutting the inside of my throat as I close the door behind me and take a deep, shocking breath.

For a second, I consider going back in and grabbing my jacket. But it’s a stark white; it would be visible from the windows, were anyone to look out their windows at the pond.

I’ll have to chance it. I won’t freeze to death as long as it’s above freezing. At least I don’t think I will.