Page 21 of The Last to Vanish
I decided to wait him out. I slid to the base of the wall, listening to his movements on the other side of the wood paneling, until I could imagine my breath syncing with his. Until I could feel his loss.
My mom used to tell me I should be careful not to let my imagination get the best of me, but then, she had always been a realist. She said she had to be, that life didn’t hand you any favors. She’d had me in her early twenties, raised me on her own, quit the job she’d loved, with the irregular hours running camps and clinics at the stables, for the steady and dependable one instead.But her practicality hadn’t done her any favors in the long run. She had died from a quick and aggressive bout with cancer when I was eighteen.
I’d done the only thing I could imagine doing in those months leading up to her death—I’d changed my mind about college, put my future on hold to stay with her; and then after, I’d packed up the things she’d left behind, and had no idea where to go next. The person I had been before felt like a stranger, like the future I’d once imagined belonged to someone else.
This,here, was never a future I’d have pictured for myself. But now I couldn’t imagine anything else.
If she were still alive, I knew she’d see nothing practical about me being here, either, but then, I had never been much like her in any way that counted.
I heard the soft shift of mattress springs, and I imagined Trey sitting on the edge of that four-poster bed, head in his hands, finally processing everything that had happened. The not knowing leading him down too many paths, dredging up too many memories. It felt too intimate, too close, and I wondered if he could sense me here, too.
Finally, the springs creaked again as he stood, and I heard his footsteps cross the room. Then: the hinge of the bathroom door, the squeak of a knob, and the shudder of pipes before the sound of running water in his shower muffled all the rest.
I took my chance, sneaking out as silently as I had entered. Locking the door behind me. Darting through the night, undetected, the same way I had arrived. Like a ghost.
I WAS PACKED ANDready to go for the hike by 5:45, riding the wave of adrenaline. I knew, even then, that I was on my way toward a crash—but I also knew from experience that it wouldn’t hityet. You just had to keep moving. If nothing else, the mountain taught you that.
It was why, when hiking, I didn’t look too far ahead or too far back. In truth, I didn’t consider myself an expert, either. My primary experience was with this single expanse of trail to Shallow Falls. I knew it well, but I knew very little of what lay beyond it—I’d only done the trek up to the Appalachian once, with Sloane, through the famous pass that hugged the ravine, and I had no interest in doing it again.
I hadn’t even gone out on our trail since the search for Landon West. At first, it was a choice: I couldn’t walk out of sight of the inn alone without getting a chill, imagining all the things that could’ve happened to him. The pull of the safety of the inn, and the town full of people—people who would notice, look out for you, keep track of you. Eventually, like all things, it became habit. Athing. We’d hired Jack to be on call for summer weekends when he wasn’t leading Outward Bound programs in the deeper parts of the mountain. And, as much as I hated to admit it, I knew I could count on Cory to handle a last-minute request for a guided hike in the mornings during the week, without question. The guests loved him.
Still, I had to get back out there, and this was as good a time as any. But I was struck by an extra surge of nerves, and I wasn’t sure whether it was from the prolonged time away, or Trey’s presence, or the images on Farrah’s camera. The feeling that thereweresecrets here.
I performed one last check of my gear, trying to get back in the habit:
Bear spray in the side compartment of my pack, which had never had to be deployed, and was probably expired by now. Snacks and metal bottles full of water and a pre-packed first aid kit. A small poncho rolled up in case of rain; a knife, folded up, in the outer pocket of my hiking pants.
Most of my gear had been acquired from the lost and found bin we kept in the storage area of the basement, full of the clothes and supplies that guests had forgotten over the years. We labeled what we knew of—if something was left in a room, we’d place it in a bag with their name, in case they called. But after enough time had passed, those items, too, joined the bin with what had been abandoned in common areas across the property.
Our guests left behind brand-name gear I could’ve never afforded on my own, and the consistency with which they did not seem to miss it was something I still couldn’t get used to. When I started working here, Celeste had told me to help myself to anything I needed—I wasn’t sure how long I’d stay, couldn’t justify buying anything on my own—and this pack was the first thing I’d claimed, from the place it had been buried, for who knows how long, all the way at the bottom. The pack was a dark beige, so you couldn’t tell whether it was particularly dirty, and the straps had a bright orange threading running down the center. The only imperfections were the label that had torn off the back, leaving a darker rectangle underneath, and a broken zipper clasp on the smallest pocket. I’d threaded an orange zip tie through the loop of the zipper, and then it felt like mine. It continued to serve me well a decade later.
I rarely brought my phone on hikes; it was pointless, since there was no service from the span of the inn to the intersection with the Appalachian. But this morning I slid it into the other pocket of my pants, thinking of Farrah’s pictures. Wondering if I could try to stand in that same spot, see what it was she was looking for, capture that same image, and feel what must’ve happened next.
Then I laced up my boots, hoisted the bag onto my shoulders, and passed Georgia’s room on the way out, where the blare of her alarm clock was cutting through the sound of the radio.
Upstairs, the lobby was empty, but I saw a shadow throughthe glass of the front doors, shifting back and forth. I left Georgia a note beside the computer, still shut down:Went on AM hike with guest.I couldn’t bring myself to leave his name. Then I added two hash marks to tally the walking sticks we’d be bringing and grabbed one from the barrel. The sticks wouldn’t really be necessary today, but I knew Trey had one already, and I didn’t want to be without my own. There was a safety in the grip, in the solid wood. An extra layer of protection against both falling and predators.
I stepped outside and found him waiting, as the sky was lightening in shades of pinkish purple behind him. He looked, somehow, like he’d slept, which I didn’t think was possible. He had his own bag, which didn’t look new, but also didn’t look like it was best suited for a day trek—it was mostly empty, built more for camping, meant to carry a sleeping bag, a tent. And he wore those same hiking boots that had squealed against the lobby floor, a telltale sign of disuse. He would probably have blisters by the time we reached the falls.
“Ready?” I asked.
Trey stepped to the side, letting me take the lead as we veered right from the entrance of the parking lot—in the opposite direction from town. There was no paved road here, but loose gravel gradually gave way to a dirt trail marked by time and use. People sometimes tried to park here, tucked just out of sight, and there was an old dirt-streaked sedan there now, with a bumper sticker of a multicolored peace sign.
The air was crisp and the sun was rising behind us, casting the trees in an eerie glow, shadows stretching into the distance. I heard nothing but the sound of the morning birds, our steady breathing, and our steps falling in unison as we approached the wooden sign for the trailhead.
The letters were carved into the wood post, just before the treeline. I stopped once, gazed over my shoulder, and had to shield my eyes from the rays of light coming up over the inn.
“This,” I told Trey, “is the last place Farrah Jordan was seen.” I imagined her feet planted into this very earth. The others who had stood here before and felt the pull of what awaited just inside the tree line. Her thinking,Just one step. Just one more. Just a little farther—
“How far to the falls?” he asked.
“It’s about two and half miles,” I said. And then, imagining Farrah taking a step across some unseen threshold, I did the same.
The trail started in a steady, gradual incline before dipping down toward the falls. We had only been walking about five minutes when Trey stopped. He had turned around, staring back at the trees and rhododendron, our path narrowing. “You can’t even see the exit anymore,” he said, with the vegetation pushing tighter and tighter, a tunnel-like descent.
“It happens fast,” I said, the foliage growing in thicker each year, and every spring, a volunteer team coming through to keep nature from encroaching too far. Making sure the ground beneath the flat rocks that worked as steps hadn’t eroded too much; checking that the path was wide enough; adding a fresh flash of yellow paint to a tree trunk at each switchback, to mark the way.
“This must be impossible at night,” he said. It wasn’t, actually, as long as you had a headlamp, a friend, good instincts. But now I was following his line of sight, imagining the scene from Trey’s perspective. His brother, trying to find his way back, unable to make it. How this place looked in the dark when you weren’t familiar with it, with no landmarks to guide you home. How easy it would be to take a wrong step, head deeper into the woods. How difficult to reorient yourself toward the exit.
