Page 38 of The Last to Vanish
I nodded, tucked my wet hair behind my ear. “I’ve got some errands to run this morning, but I’ll be working this afternoon. You know where to find me.”
Georgia’s call was worrying me—the binder should’ve been right there. A lost key yesterday, and now a lost binder—too many reminders that things had a way of disappearing here.
Trey backed away, down the hall, out to the back porch he’d just entered from. And I was struck again by the similarities between him and his brother: their builds, their mannerisms. I understood suddenly why I’d felt a pull to him, from the start. Like I could stop him this time, before he slipped away. Alter a conversation, change an interaction, extend an invitation. As if it were possible to pull him back—pull them all back.
I’D FOUND LANDON WESTout in this hall, in a moment eerily similar to the one that had just happened, just outside the employee door. But the lobby of the inn had been mostly deserted then. I’d done a double take when I exited from the stairwell, seeing a man lingering so close, so quietly, to the employee quarters. Something made me pause, pulling the door shut behind me, waiting to feel the security of the latch.
Good morning, I’d said, and he’d looked at the polo I wore, the label on the upper corner, before pointing at the images on the wall.Is it true, that the owners built this place all on their own?
I smiled.Designed and planned from the ground up. Blood and sweat and a little luck.The same thing Celeste had once said to me. But then I looked over my shoulder, leaned closer, in mock conspiracy.I assure you there were more hands involved than just theirs. After all, I painted this hallway myself last year.
He stepped back as if to appraise my work.Very professional. You hung these, too?
I did.
I watched as his eyes shifted from frame to frame.It’s like seeing two versions of the same thing.The image of the structure, framed inwood. The blueprints hanging in the last photo. He pointed to the door I’d just come from.Do you give tours down there?
My smile faltered.No, it’s private residences.
Just like the carriage house out there?
I didn’t know why he was asking about Celeste’s home. Or mine. But it put me on alert. Made me remember where we were, made me think of Farrah, and the people who had come looking for her, asking in their roundabout ways.
Are you a guest here, sir?
Landon West, he said, hand extended, wide smile with a dimple.I’m staying in Cabin Four.
Oh, I haven’t seen you around. Though I recognized his name from the log. Figured he’d been using the cabin as a base for hiking. He hadn’t been in for happy hour, that I knew of.
I’m working on a book, he’d said, eyes drifting back to the framed series.What’s your name again?
I hadn’t yet told him.Abby.
Abby, he repeated.You’ve worked here awhile?
Ten years, I said.
Ten years, he repeated. There was something off about him, the way he circled around a question, repeated my responses. But I had to relieve Georgia from her shift, and I couldn’t think of a reason to ask him to go.
Later that night, after I had closed up the lobby for the evening and had just come downstairs, I heard someone trying the back door. Our private entrance. The one hidden under the deck. I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I unlocked the door myself and peered into the night, but whoever it was must’ve heard me coming and fled. I couldn’t say for sure it was him—guests sometimes tried other doors, exploring the grounds. Though I believed, in that moment, that it was.
IN THE LOBBY, GEORGIAwas moving around, running her fingers over each surface, checking under tables, around the stacks of logs beside the fireplace. Her purse was on the surface of the registration desk, like she’d just come in, though she’d probably been out here for hours.
“Hey,” I called. “No luck?”
“I’ve checked everywhere up here. Even the restroom, just in case.”
The binder usually held copies of the credit cards we made with the slide under the desk. It held check-in and checkout data, license plate numbers, daily orders to the Last Stop for happy hour, our tally of walking sticks. We usually kept it locked up in the back office, but now I couldn’t remember where I’d left it last night when I’d rushed out—trying to match the Instagram photo from theAliceKellyWasHereaccount to my bag.
I shuddered, remembering the image of Alice Kelly looking over her shoulder, like she was peering right back at me.Do you see me?
“I can’t remember if I put it away,” I said, running my hands through my damp hair. I saw her gaze trailing my fingers, her eyes flitting around the room, like the binder might still magically appear.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used it—when the group of six returned from their hike, maybe? Dropping their sticks, exchanging them for a first aid kit and the number for urgent care?
I started searching the areas I might’ve left it—under the desk, in the drawers of the back office. “I already checked,” Georgia said, following behind and clearly irritated, instead of the creeping dread I was starting to feel.
“Shit,” I said, standing back, hands on hips. “I don’t think it’s in the apartment, but I’ll look.” The final moments of last night had been a blur. “I’ll try to recover what we can during my shift. For now, just start a blank one for check-in and checkout.”
