Page 11 of The Last to Vanish
“Go,” I said. “Enjoy your afternoon.” Even though I knew Georgia would spend the rest of the day keeping to the grounds, as she’d been doing ever since Landon West’s disappearance. She’d change first, thinking she could blend in with the guests—so different from my own approach. I felt the opposite: Always in danger of fading into the background. Always feeling the need to remind people I was here.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Apizza delivery arrived in the lobby. A teen I had come to recognize as a regular throughout the summer popped his head inside but remained in the entrance. “Cabin Four?” he asked.
I waved him on, sure he already knew the layout of the property.
It occurred to me that Trey West hadn’t left that room since he arrived last night.
I started watching the clock as it crept closer to the time I would see him again. Imagining a do-over of the night before, where this time I was capable, no longer caught on my heels:What are you interested in doing while you’re here? Anything I can help set up? What do youwant?
The Shermans returned just before three. They appeared to be somewhere in their fifties, and both seemed relatively fit, but they looked a little worse for the wear after their hike.
“Which trail did you do today?” I asked, smiling.
“Shallow Falls,” the wife answered, peering out the window for a moment.
“How was it?” I asked.
“Took twice as long coming back than going,” the husband said, running his palm across his forehead, leaving a streak of dirt behind. “But worth it,” he added, smiling at his wife.
The Shallow Falls Trail was tricky like that. You had to becareful not to misjudge when you left. The path to the falls was rocky and meandering, weaving around roots—and the addition of a recent rain made the footing unstable on the way down.
“The falls were beautiful. Stunning, really,” she added. She had a metal water bottle in her free hand, and she passed it to her husband.
“Please thank Georgia for us,” the husband said, still a little out of breath. “She was right, about the map, and about needing these.” He dropped the walking sticks in the bin, the bases most likely coated in mud—I’d take care of that when they were out of sight.
When they were halfway down the hall, heading toward the stairs that would take them to one of the three Mountain View rooms on the second floor, I checked them off Georgia’s list for today, then closed the binder, slipped it under the countertop. Everyone safe and accounted for.
The Shallow Falls Trail—that was the one behind our property. The one made famous for the disappearances. We were more careful now. We kept a closer watch.
BY THE TIME HAPPYhour was approaching, I hadn’t received the food delivery yet, and I was getting anxious. Or maybe it was the thought of Trey West, due any moment.
I kept peering out the office window, in between people stopping by the lobby. And when the older couple staying in Eagle’s Nest on the top floor came down fifteen minutes early, completely in character—early for check-in, early for happy hour, early for breakfast—I went ahead and gathered a crate of the wine from inventory.
Through the tempered glass panel, I could see a blue vehicle parked in front of the doors, and I breathed a sigh of relief. TheLast Stop Tavern owned a blue, nondescript van, driven by a variety of their employees.
I opened a few of the bottles, setting out the glassware and the small plates, when Marina opened the front door, propping it ajar.
“Sorry, running a little behind today,” she said while I pasted on a grin.
I was too surprised by her presence to react. Usually, one of their teenage employees brought up the trays of food, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the Last Stop logo.
But Marina was out of uniform, and looked like she had plans for the evening. Her hair was uncharacteristically down, curls defined with gel, and she’d lined her eyes, wore her wedding rings—which I never saw while she was working, typically.
She set up the appetizers on the warming trays, then stood off to the side as the early couple started piling their small plates with an assortment of bruschetta and mini mozzarella sticks, heat visibly escaping at first bite.
It occurred to me, then, that Marina intended to stay. Which was the point of these happy hours, really. Celeste wanted the inn to be open to the community, a place where visitors could mingle with one another, but also a place to help local businesses, to meet someone who might share details about a river trip, a horseback tour, or the best place to hike. And for the locals to share a taste of the authentic Cutter’s Pass. We wanted the inn to look alive, and this was a way to achieve it, while supporting the community at the same time.
The wine was procured from the Last Stop, but the label matched the logo that had adorned the inn since its inception—that tree with the bare branches spreading across the sky, in inverse colors from the umbrella: navy blue on a white label,The Passage Innwritten in small cursive letters underneath.
“How are things going?” Marina asked as she fidgeted with astack of napkins, turning them side to side on the counter, accomplishing nothing.
I knew why she was here. She was waiting to see what would happen. She was waiting to see him.
Footsteps approached from down the hall, and her eyes betrayed her, shifting over my shoulder. But it was just the trio of couples from the Forest View rooms on the second floor, traveling together.
I smiled, poked a cherry tomato with a toothpick. “He’s not staying upstairs,” I said before popping it into my mouth.
“Has he seen the room?” she asked.
