Page 47 of The Last to Vanish
I slid the small key into the lock, felt the mechanism turn within. I peered behind me once more, making sure I was alone in the back of the store before lifting the latch. The locker was not empty. Not at all. Something black swung from the hook at the side, meant for jackets or backpacks, and it took me a second to process what I was looking at.
A camera.
There were more items inside, a small pile on the shelf just above my line of vision, but I shut the door quickly, breathingheavily. My hands shaking, stomach churning.What—why—how—
Laughter, from over by the counter, where Jack now appeared to be leading the visitors toward the register.
What the hell was I supposed to do with this? Lock it all up, pretend it didn’t exist? When this locker had been taken out in my name, and Georgia had the key? How long until Jack or someone else opened up the ledger and remembered I had been in here, looking through it?
I twisted the key, checked that the lock was engaged, and wove through the racks of clothing and supplies as quickly as I could. When I opened the front door, Jack looked up, called my name, “Hey, Abby from the inn, did you find it?”
I raised one finger, indicated I’d be right back. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
I moved on autopilot across the street, hand haphazardly out to my side, to warn the traffic tostop. Rochelle was just stepping out of the sheriff’s office as I walked by, and she paused, one foot on the sidewalk, one still on the steps. “Abby?” she called, like she wasn’t sure.
I mumbled in her direction—Running some errands,orPicking up some supplies, or maybe just,Hi, Rochelle—but whatever it was, she turned away, and the next thing I knew I was stepping through the foliage and emerging onto that dead-end street where I’d left Georgia’s car. Trey’s car was still there as well, and I moved quickly, unlocking the door and pulling my bag—Alice’s bag—out of the back seat. Then I slipped it onto my shoulders and headed back to the Edge.
There was nothing to be done about the bag. At least it could be explained away.
The only safe thing to do was to get everything out of that locker, and make sure that no one caught a glimpse of anythinginside.Just Abby from the inn, with the pack she always used. Just getting some supplies for a hike. I couldn’t dare leave those things in the locker, now that I knew they existed.
I could feel the sweat on my back as I entered the store again, and all five people turned to look my way. The two tweens had meandered back to the clothing section while their parents were finishing the checkout procedure, Jack filling them in on the best path, the best course, the best campsites.
The girl was scanning the room with her phone poised, like for some social media post. She’d probably caption it:Ready to rough itor something equally untrue, considering what her parents were currently purchasing.
Then she was trying on a floppy hat, and I took the moment to open the locker again, dropping my pack at my feet. I unzipped the top and quickly stuffed the camera into the bottom, then peered over my shoulder again. The girl was still busy, but the boy was approaching. I imagined I was probably drawing attention to myself by acting suspicious, and I tried to calm my nerves.
I closed my eyes and took a slow breath, trying to steady my hands, but all I could picture was Farrah, the camera around her neck. And Alice, this pack securely on her back.
One last thing. I stood on my toes so I could see what was on the upper shelf. A small, black leather-bound book, well-worn, edges of the pages warped from humidity or water or time.
I sank to my heels, pressed the back of my hand to my mouth.
The book Trey had been looking for. Landon West’s missing journal—
“Anna, you ready?” All heads whipped around, and the girl—Anna, I guessed—dropped the hat to the rack as the group moved for the front door.
It had to be now.
I reached my hand into the locker, pulled out the stack, a cellphone sliding down off the surface. I caught it against my body before it hit the floor, every part of me wanting nothing to do with any of this. Wanting it gone. Wanting to tell the sheriff. To get this all away from me.
I dropped everything into the bottom of the bag, zipped it tight, and hitched it onto my shoulders, closing the locker, turning the lock, head down, toward the exit.
“Have a good day, Abby from the inn,” Jack called.
I raised a hand in acknowledgment. The only thing I could do. I had to get out of there. I had to get all of this out of here, as far away as possible.
But I forced myself to walk slowly back to my car, aware of Rochelle just inside the window of the sheriff’s office, or somewhere on this street. And Cory down at the end of the block—if his dogs were here, then so was he. And Marina and Ray, and maybe Sheriff Stamer, circling the downtown grid, out in the open summer air.
How many times had the sheriff walked by this very spot? This was his circuit every morning. Coffee at the Edge, the newspaper stand at Trace of the Mountain Souvenirs, his seat at the Last Stop. How many times had he been within reach of Farrah Jordan’s camera and Landon West’s journal? Within inches? Mere feet? How many times had he seen me with Alice Kelly’s bag, with no idea what he was truly seeing?
We were all so unaware.
Finally back inside Georgia’s car, the pack beside me on the passenger seat, I locked the doors before starting the car. As if someone was following me.
As much as I wanted to lookright now, I had to get away from here.
The short drive back to the inn felt endless. Every inch of traffic, a mile. All I could feel was the bag beside me, and how this would look if anyone found me with all of this evidence in mypossession. The same if anyone had opened the locker with my name and seen everything hidden within.
