Page 5 of The Last to Vanish
Cory shared theories that none of us really believed: a hidden network of caves with an underground cult; a man in the mountains who had supposedly lived off grid for decades, protecting the land he deemed his own. And he told some we believed a little more, about animals and weather and how easy it was to disappear in a place like this; about people who might not want to be found. All mixed in with rumors about lines of latitude and magnetic fields, like this was the Bermuda Triangle and not four square miles of solid ground with a well-defined perimeter.
Cory hadn’t noticed me yet, his arms wide as he was telling some story that was lost to the rain, and the crowd.
“What about the people here?” I heard one woman shout from the back of the group. “Especially since all the missing were visitors? Were there ever any suspects in town?”
“The police have been through this place with a fine-tooth comb. More times than I can remember,” he answered, his voice sliding smooth as honey over the crowd. “Have you ever known a place to keep a secret for over two decades? Have you met me?”
Some laughs, a few smiles visible in the dancing lights. This was how he got the tips. That gosh-darn attitude,I’ll tell you my secrets for a beer, friend. It wasn’t true. Cory Shiles would take his secrets to the grave.
“Cory,” I called, sharp and deliberate.
He turned my way, lantern illuminating the white of his teeth. “Well, hey there, Abby!” he called back, too friendly, not reading my tone—or, more likely, choosing to ignore it. “We’re in luck tonight, this here is Abby Lovett, manager of—”
I gave him a single shake of the head, and he handed the lantern to the woman beside him, wide-eyed and eager. “Excuse me for one second, folks.”
I waited until he was out of earshot of the group, who were watching this interaction closely. I kept my voice low, my teeth clenched. “Tell me you did not add us to your ghost tour, for the love of God,” I said.
He grinned, rain hitting the hood of his coat, the top of his boots. “It’s not a ghost tour, Abby. We’re a historical walking tour—”
“He went missingfour months ago, Cory. People arestill looking.”
Cory took one step back, his shoulders rising and falling. “Just giving the customers what they want.”
I took a step forward, to keep this discussion private. “His brother just checked in,” I said.
The smile fell from his face; he craned his neck, taking in thesecond-floor windows of the inn over my shoulder. “Where’d you put him?”
“Same room,” I said. “Cabin Four.” Out of sight, for the moment. As long as Cory’s group didn’t make a scene.
“Well,” he said, dark eyes searching mine, “you really should’ve led with that.” He used his left hand to wipe away a raindrop that may or may not have existed on the side of my face, his thumb rough and familiar. “You take care now, Abby.”
Thank you, I mouthed, though I wasn’t sure he could see.
“Folks,” he said as he walked back, “there’ve been some flash flood warnings coming through. I think we’d better finish this up over a drink or two.”
He looked back once, used his fingers to tip the hood of his raincoat my way, like he was someone from another time.
I’d met Cory at the Last Stop myself almost ten years ago now. Before I knew he was the tavern owners’ son. A permanent, reliable fixture of town, whether you wanted him there or not. Ten years, and he still had that charisma, a fearlessness, the promise of secrets.
There were certain things about Cory that were still appealing, just as there were things about the inn that were not. It’s all in what you chose to focus your energy on, what you wanted to see. The flattering slant of the angle. The play of shadows. What you could get people to notice. What you could convince the majority of them to believe.
GEORGIA WAS GONE BYthe time I returned, the office locked up, the registration area secured. She preferred morning shifts—handling breakfast instead of happy hour; checking guests out, instead of in. But she’d finished most of the evening routine for me. Like a fair trade for me dealing with Cory.
Celeste wouldn’t have hired Georgia on her own.Are we sure about her?she’d asked more than once. Celeste didn’t want people who seemed like they couldn’t do the hard things, and Georgia sure didn’t look it when she arrived. She’d come to the mountains to hike a stretch of the Appalachian in the second summer of the pandemic, but five days in, she left the group she’d been with, hiked herself down that access trail, and threw her pack on the floor of the lobby, coated in dirt and fatigue, like she’d wanted any excuse to get out and misjudged herself; like she’d reassessed her life and was out to make a change, before realizing that wasn’t the change she was looking for. “This isn’t me. I’m out,” she’d said before slapping a thick credit card on top of the registration desk.
I had imagined hard ground and poor packing; a man she was trying to impress, who was not impressed with her; I had imagined her waking up that morning, staring at the top of her tent, or the burned-out remnants of a campfire, or the heavy pack and the trail disappearing into the distance—and bailing.
It had seemed, from the way she had arrived, that she could not, in fact, do the hard things. But Celeste had been looking for more help so she could take a step back. And I thought I saw something in Georgia, something I recognized. So when Georgia extended her stay, asking around about jobs, I jumped.
A year later, for all our differences, I was glad to have her. The guests connected with her, and she was easy to work with, easy to live with. She might not have needed the money (a warning from Celeste, after she saw the car she’d returned with), but she did need something—and whatever it was, it kept her here, kept her loyal.
I lifted the phone from the cradle, pressed the power button, and listened to the soft familiar hum of the dial tone.See? Everything’s okay.Some line must have come down in town, and now it was back; and Trey West would spend a night in the place hisbrother was last seen, and come to terms with something, then head out in the morning; the storm would pass and tomorrow the mountain sun would creep across the sky, drying the earth in steady patches.
By tomorrow evening, all evidence of this would have disappeared, as so often happened here.
I left the phone on top of the desk, angled toward the lobby, and placed the sign beside it, designating my apartment number as the line to call for assistance. I checked the office locks one last time and peered around the common area, making sure everything was as it should be. Last, I hit the light switch hidden behind the registration area that turned off the upper lights, leaving only the soft glow of the gas lanterns in my wake.
Then I walked down the main hall, passing the series of framed black-and-white photographs showing the construction of the inn. First, Celeste and her late husband, Vincent, both with windswept hair: Vincent, with a strong jaw and chiseled face, smile turned toward her, sleeves of a button-down rolled up, like he’d just come from the office; Celeste with her head tipped back, wide smile, like she’d been starting to laugh. She must’ve been close to my age then. Both of them were standing beside the lumber that would one day become the dome of the lobby. The next pictures captured the various stages of the build, the main structure in skeleton form, all wood beams and open air, so that now, standing in this hall, I could almost smell the raw lumber under the drywall and paint.
