Chapter 37
Back in my cabin, I hurry to collect the things I need. I can’t carry my suitcase with me to therapy without giving away the game. These aren’t normal circumstances; I can live with leaving behind my clothes, my books, my things.
What I really need is my proof. And decent enough clothes and shoes to get out.
If worst comes to worst, if I can’t get to Sandra in time and have to make a run for it, I can jump the fence and try to hike to the nearest town.
There was a gas station about twenty-five minutes from here; I might be able to flag down a car, too, if I can make it to the highway.
I layer on several sweaters, pull my jeans off to get thermal leggings on under them. Two pairs of socks will have to do, or I won’t be able to fit my boots over them.
Once I’m done, I’m overheated, sweaty, and nearly ready.
I hope it won’t come to hiking. Sandra was right: I’ve never been one for the outdoors.
The idea of walking along that road, the rain thundering down from above, the wind threatening to throw me down to the ground, all in the hopes that I won’t get too cold or too tired, praying they won’t come after me, makes my heart sink.
But it might be my only option. And if it is, I’ll take it.
I look around the cabin. I’ve once again made a mess of it. I consider cleaning up but decide against it. If it looks like I left all my stuff, they may assume I haven’t left. It’ll buy me some time.
Now all I need is my recorder.
I get down on my knees by the bag, reach into it for the recorder. The black rectangle with its silly little screen has become the closest thing to comfort I’ve got.
It gives me something the necklace never could. Certainty.
I try to turn it on but find that it’s out of battery, and I frown. I charged it just last night, while I was waiting for Sandra; it shouldn’t have run out already.
Quickly, I tug out the cord to the lamp on the bedside table and plug in the charger instead. The recorder beeps to life after only a couple of seconds, and it only takes me a moment to see why it’s run out.
I forgot to turn it off last night. After leaving my “last message.”
It all seems so trite and pointless now.
The recording is six hours long. It lay here, dutifully documenting the sound of the oncoming storm until the battery ran out.
When I click on it, and it shows the track, I see, to my surprise, that there are three major peaks on the recording.
The first one is clearly the message I left; after that, there are ten or so minutes of low-level sound from the rain, and a small blip.
Finally, there is a big chunk about an hour or so in.
When I fast-forward to the final burst, I’m greeted by muffled voices. It takes me a little while to recognize them.
“… you lunatic!”
It’s Clara. Me and Clara, arguing last night.
I don’t need to listen to it back. I remember it well enough.
Instead, I go back to the little blip, about ten minutes after I left.
It’s short, voices rising and falling over the sound of the rain.
Even at a strain, I’m having a hard time making them out; whoever it is, they must have been right outside my cabin, but the sound of the wind is drowning out the voices.
I raise the volume, rewind again, and try once more.
It’s easier to make out the tone than it is the words themselves.
First, a short burst, like a greeting; then, a period of only rain …
and then, sounding closer, slightly louder, something I can almost make out.
There is a strong vowel sound, a U, and then what sounds like rear.
I go back, listen to it three more times.
I’m almost, almost certain they are saying “… you here?”
Finally, a few seconds later, are the only three words I’m sure of. It’s not a full sentence; the first one is spoken by a different voice than the last two, and in the middle are sounds too muffled to interpret.
“… Isobel … about Susannah.”
I recognize the first voice. Recognize the way it says my name.
It’s the same voice I heard in the woods last night. Whispering for me in the dark.
I turn the recorder back off. Slowly slide it into my pocket. I try to get to my feet, but my legs won’t cooperate.
That voice in the woods was real. They went out there to find me. They knew I’d be out there, and they knew about Susannah.
And they weren’t alone.
A sentence from the Himlafall brochure pops into my head, and I begin to laugh, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to swallow the sound back down.
There are no secrets at Himlafall. Here, you are never alone.
Clearly, I should have read that literally.
The door opens behind my back. There is no knock, no warning.
I turn my head, and I see Belinda standing in the doorway, softly backlit in ominous gray, the hood of her rain jacket making her look like some ancient monk, come to make me repent for my sins.
“Isobel. You’re late for group therapy.”