Page 20 of The Last to Vanish
There was no way I would be getting any sleep—not before I had to be up to take Trey down to the falls. And not with the past suddenly rising up in figments, one by one—first Landon, then Farrah—out of the dark.
Instead, I was thinking of all the things Trey had seen in this place. The way people turned up at the happy hour as if coordinated: the sheriff, Marina, Celeste. The noises he’d heard the night before, coming from the next room—he’d been so sure that someone had been in the cabin beside his, listening in. Maybe even watching him. And I couldn’t convince myself that he was wrong. Not anymore. Not now, with Farrah Jordan’s photographs turning up in that very room.
I picked up the phone in my room, just to check—this was the number I left on a sign at the lobby, where guests could reach me during my nights on call. The dial tone connected, and I felt something unfurl inside my chest. Relieved that the issue with the phone lines did not stretch across the entire property. That we were not being targeted by some unseen force or threat.
The flicker of light outside the windows finally dimmed to nothing. I left the lights off, suddenly aware of all that might be out there instead, looking in.
When I’d first arrived, a decade earlier, it was easy to feel isolated and removed from everything and everyone, to let my imagination run wild. The drive into town alone was narrow and winding, the trees stretching over the asphalt. We were fifteen miles from the next town, but it felt like longer on the mountain roads. Alone at the inn, with the spotty cell phone service, that feeling only grew, especially in the bad weather, especially when a heavy windstorm cut us off from the rest of town.
But over time, I’d come to appreciate it—love it, even. I grew to know this place through Celeste’s eyes, her perspective bleeding over into mine. She had a faith in this world she had built that was impossible to doubt. A belief in the decency and ability of the people she surrounded herself with, a group that now included me—so that it was impossible not to see those same traits in myself. This inn, she believed, would withstand anything, with its strong foundation and reinforced walls. We were a self-contained universe, and I was a necessary part of it.
Even with all of itsnotorious history—from the Fraternity Four to Landon West—most days, I still saw it that way.
But now I felt unsettled by those same elements, bound by the concrete walls, unable to hear anything that might be happening beyond the confines of my apartment. I needed to hear someone else’s voice on the other end of the line. A connection. Georgiawas just across the hall, but nothing comforting could come from waking her up at this time of night. Sloane would probably still be camping out of range—and if not, she’d be catching up on some much-needed sleep. I stared at the phone, considering. Remembering, years earlier, calling Cory deep in the night, just to hear the familiar rumble of his voice, feel that connection.
Instead, I slipped on my sneakers, tucked my key card into my back pocket, and ventured out of my room. The basement was lit by the always-on soft-glow safety lights in the stairwell, leading up.
The inn was entirely quiet as I stepped out from the employee entrance to the first-floor hallway, slowly easing the door shut behind me. The gas lamps that lined the lobby gave it a gentle ambiance—but were dim enough to remind our guests that this was not a place to linger after hours.
On the wall behind the registration desk hung the locked display case of room keys. This was a danger, of course, if you were looking for it: an inventory of which rooms were occupied, and which were not. It didn’t matter, typically, since most every room was booked inside the main building. And we had an electronic badge that could be placed on the silver square above each room handle, disengaging the lock.
But not for the cabins. Nothing had been upgraded, technology-wise, out there. Those accommodations generally appealed to a different clientele.
We had a master set of keys to every room, which we kept in the lockbox in the back office, along with the key for the display case, each labeled in a small manila envelope. This was where Georgia would’ve gone to replace the lost key to Mountain View One. Eventually I’d have to call in for a replacement to be made. But for now, I riffled through the manila envelopes until I found the one markedCabin 3.
To avoid the front-path lights, I exited out the back onto thedeck. In the mornings, we propped this door open for the breakfast crowd, but now, as the door swung shut behind me, the light went with it. I leaned forward until my hands brushed the iron rungs of the chair at the nearest table, using the furniture to guide myself until my eyes adjusted to the dark. I inched down the steps by memory, onto the grassy expanse, tracing the edge of the inn, hand grazing stone, until the outlines of the cabins appeared in the distance, darker shadows against the night.
A small line of path lights trailed from the cabins toward the front of the inn, but there were no lights coming from any of the cabins themselves. Not even from Cabin Four, where I couldn’t imagine Trey West actually sleeping. Unless he’d had even more wine than I’d thought.
I approached the cabin steps carefully, quietly, making sure the curtains on his front window were closed before easing my key into the lock for the cabin next door, all too aware of every noise. I was used to the nighttime sounds, but now, I felt overexposed and vulnerable.
A twig cracking to my right; something rustling in the leaves overhead; the gentle thud of the lock disengaging.
I eased the door closed behind me, holding my breath as the latch clicked shut, then used the light on my phone to illuminate the corners of the room. Empty, as expected. And undisturbed. Just an unexpected chill circulating through the room, but that could’ve been the hour, the dark, all the things I had been imagining that had brought me to this point.
The queen bed was made; the bathroom door was closed; the guidebook was left on the center of the desk. Nothing appeared out of place. All the furniture had been positioned in the mirror image of the cabin next door, so that the desk in this room was pressed up against the same spot as the desk in Trey West’s room.
And then I listened: silence, mostly. Except for a faint whistling coming from the back wall. I took a step in that direction, thinking there might be a crack in the window frame. The closer I got, the more I could feel it—a hiss of cool night air filtering through a gap somewhere.
I ran my fingers along the borders of the window frame, but instead of finding a crack, there was an open expanse between the glass and the frame. The window was unlatched, pushed slightly ajar, probably from the last time someone was staying here. Something Georgia must’ve missed in her follow-up routine. Out of character, considering how she’d been almost compulsive in her routines since Landon West’s disappearance, checking and rechecking rooms and guest lists, as if everyone was always in danger of disappearing.
My fingers stretched through the gap into the open air—the screen worked in a similar way, sliding open and closed, and it, too, was currently ajar. Most likely, the noises Trey heard last night had indeed been an animal. Maybe not a squirrel in the eaves, but something else: a nocturnal creature slipping in through the gap of the window, flying or scampering around the abandoned room.
Though I knew a person could slip through the window just as easily. One foot on an outer log, elbows on the windowsill, a body climbing through. I shuddered, brushing the image aside.
I slid the screen closed, and then the window, but when I tried to latch it shut, it wouldn’t engage at first. The slide was old and weatherworn, and I had to put my weight behind it to close the final gap. I cringed as the sound broke the silence.
A noise resounded from the wall to my right, almost in echo. I spun, expecting to confront whatever animal had found its way inside, but the room remained still. Nothing moved as I scanned the beam of light from my phone slowly across the wall.
Another scratching sound began from the space behind thewall, just as I was staring at it. Like an animal had become caught between the wood framing.
But then the noise deepened, solidified; too large to be a squirrel or mouse. No, something was scraping against the base of the wall. It had to be Trey West, on the other side of the divider. Shifting the desk. Dragging a suitcase.
I held my breath, tried not to make a sound. Had he heard me when I closed the window? Would he come to investigate and find me here, thinking I had been spying on him the night before?I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get it out of my head, the noises you said you heard, and came to check—Would he believe me?
The sudden sound of glass on glass made me jump. I tried to imagine it: Throwing a glass at the wall? An empty wine bottle, ricocheting to the floor? The noise didn’t seem violent enough. I was still trying to picture it when the distinct sound of a wooden chair scraped against the floor, like nails on a chalkboard. And suddenly I knew exactly what he was doing on the other side of the wall: He was cleaning the mess. Tossing the empty bottles of wine into the trash. Moving the rest of the furniture back to where it belonged.
I crept closer, ear to the wall, until I could imagine him clearly, the steps he was taking, the expression on his face. Coming toward me, turning away. Running his hand through his hair, bloodshot eyes searching the corners of the room for anything he had missed.
