Page 6 of The Last to Vanish
Near the end of the hall, I pressed my thumb to a nail hole that still needed repair, visible under a patch of paint that hadn’t been spackled first. No one here visiting would notice, probably. But it was our job to find the imperfections and correct them, even in the rustic allure. The only flaws here were deliberate and curated. But there was never any time for a complete job until the off-season. Anytime I got started with a paint touch-up, I only noticed theborders where the color didn’t blend right, older sections that had faded or dulled from sunlight and time. The full repaint would have to wait for the string of winter days in January when we shut the inn for all the work we’d been putting off throughout the year.
I used my badge to unlock the nondescript door just before the back exit. Inside, the steps led down to the lower level, for employees, where we stopped pretending. Here, the doors had regular keys, regular locks—nothing that could be overridden with an electronic card. Along the hallway, scuff marks marred the walls, from furniture and supply deliveries, year after year.
Down the hall, I could hear music coming from Georgia’s apartment. She kept the radio on whenever she was in, even when she was sleeping, as if to confirm that she was there. As if she had listened to Cory’s talk one too many times, had started to believe the rumors herself—that an unknown danger could approach from the woods at any time.
My apartment was just past Georgia’s. I let myself in and locked up behind me. The noise from her room fell to silence. The walls on the lower level were built thick, for structure and support, and noise didn’t carry like it did out in the halls. Georgia and I each had a one-bedroom unit with a kitchenette and bathroom off a small all-purpose living space—the mirror image of each other’s.
Without turning on the light, I dropped my keys on the laminate counter, stepped out of my damp shoes, peeled off my socks. I removed the pins from my bun as I crossed the room, worked my fingers through the deep brown layers, feeling them slowly unspool.
The inn was built into a slope, so that our rooms on the lower level actually looked out onto the mountain, too, tucked into the side of the incline. Personally, I believed these were the best views, because you could see near and far equally—the blades of grass just on the other side of the glass, an animal tracking by, leavesfalling over the sill; and the mountains in the distance, seeming even more massive, given the lower perspective.
My living room curtains remained closed, since guests sometimes explored the grounds directly outside. But my bedroom had a view that remained unobstructed and uncovered at all times. Upper windows that slanted outward, halfway to being skylights, giving way to a rocky overlook below, difficult to reach from the outside.
When I’d first arrived, I used to jolt alert in the night, listening for whatever had startled me, before realizing it must’ve been the silence itself. And I’d wake each morning disoriented by the perspective, taking a moment to recenter myself, remember where I was.
People seemed to think this place would settle into me immediately, that it was in my bones, somehow, as Celeste’s niece, even if we weren’t related by blood. But it had happened gradually, in a way that caught me by surprise. Ten years later, and it held the familiar comfort of home: It was private and perfect and mine.
I felt my way in the dark, pulling my pajamas from the drawer underneath my bed, brushing my teeth by the glow of the bathroom night-light, slipping into the familiar sheets.
Then it was just me, and the rain. I felt my pulse, two fingers at the base of my neck. Counted my breaths, in and out, in and out. Stared up, out the bedroom windows, at the water streaking across the glass, and the night sky beyond. The view familiar, if ever-changing.
There was a subtle shift in the pattern of the raindrops on my windows. Something in the chaos that told me the storm was over, though it still sounded like it was raining—the kind of thing you only came to recognize with time. The drops continued to fall from the trees around us, and would continue to do so, hours later, in a delayed echo, like the light of a dying star.
Looking up at night here, the universe felt so alive—not that you were really looking into the past, at things that may not exist anymore. At times, everything about this place felt like we were circling things that had already happened. The photos in the hall; the people who had gone missing; the stories Cory told, down at the tavern. Like you were always running behind—whether by hours or light-years. By the time you realized what you were seeing here, it was too late. It was already gone.
CHAPTER 3
THERE WAS NO NEEDfor an alarm clock in the summer months—the sun rose before any work needed to be done, and I wasn’t due in an official capacity until the afternoon.
The windows above my bed were slightly fogged, and I could feel the morning chill as my feet planted onto the floor beside my bed. Outside the window, a scattering of pebbles cascaded down the rocky outcropping—a squirrel or two, making their way down from the roof, I was guessing. They were nearly impossible to deter, leaping from tree to roof, gnawing their way into the eaves with a relentless, single-minded focus. No matter how frequently we patched over the problem, no matter how much we tried to stop them, we’d hear the telltale scratching within weeks again.
My apartment phone hadn’t rung through the night, so I assumed everyone had gotten through the storm okay. No power outages, or leaks, or requests for the number of a late-night delivery service so guests wouldn’t have to venture out into the weather.
A good night. A quiet night.
I caught sight of myself in the bedroom mirror, dark hair down past my shoulders and a tattoo on my collarbone that I very much regretted from when I was a teenager, three tiny birds taking flight.I’d imagined it as my future, then—my mom used to joke that I always had one foot out the door, ready to take off.
Even though I wasn’t on shift yet, I got myself ready for the day, gathered my hair into a low bun and dressed in my uniform—black pants and navy polo, bare-branched tree logo on the upper left corner. As the manager of the inn, there was a constantly growing list of things to keep on top of, from coordinating repairs to checking the grounds, and it was less concerning for guests to see someone in uniform slipping in and out of previously unnoticed doorways. The only difference in my work attire right now was my choice of footwear—sneakers, for walking the grounds or pacing the halls while keeping a low profile.
Georgia’s room was quiet. She was either on her morning run or already up in the lobby, opening for the day, preparing the continental breakfast that guests would take from the lobby to the seats by the windows scattered throughout the inn, or, more likely, to the bistro tables on the deck out back, where you could have your coffee while watching the sky turn colors over the mountain ridge.
I took the private exit at the end of the employee hall, barely visible from the back of the building, painted to blend in. It was only accessible with an employee badge, just like from the upstairs hallway, so that maintenance and Celeste could access the storage closets, where we kept an assortment of supplies, outdoor furniture, old records, and fresh linens. But it was also the entrance most often used by me and Georgia—a private door to our home.
Now, as I emerged on the back corner of our property, under the deck that extended off the main level, I could already hear chairs shifting above. Beyond the stairs to the deck was a line of trees that concealed a garage with a carriage home over top, where Celeste lived.
In the distance, the fog was lifting off the mountain, like smoke. Wisps of heavy gray still clung to the trees in sections, muting everything. It was my favorite kind of morning, haunting and beautiful.
I took a picture to send to Sloane later in the week, when I knew she’d be back in cell phone range. When Sloane took a promotion to start up her company’s new rafting center in Virginia, she pulled me in tight and whispered, “Don’t disappear on me.” The day after she’d left, I’d sent her a photo from the town green at three p.m.—what Sloane called ice cream hour, for the prevalence of tourists who took their cones to the lawn at the same time, as if coordinated. I’d bought a cone from the corner shop just for the shot, captioned the photo:Proof of Life. I’d received a photo in response that evening: Sloane, looking tired, long wavy hair, unimpressed expression as she stood in front of a room full of moving boxes, bottle of beer raised.
We continued sending proof-of-life photos back and forth, at least once a week—it had become a way to stay connected during busy days and opposite schedules. In the last few weeks, I’d received: an oar stuck in mud; a heap of life jackets in an open truck bed; legs crossed on a wooden deck railing, dirty sneakers half blocking the sunset.
I slid my phone into my back pocket and began my morning routine, tracing a path across our property. A decade here, and I could walk the grounds with my eyes closed, day or night. First, the expanse of back greenway with the periodic bench swing, where guests often had picnics and occasionally forgot a blanket, or an empty bottle, or food (but that would be gone by morning, if so). Then, the gated section along the side wall, with the hot tub, where there was currently one inn-issued towel forgotten on the brick patio, which I shook out and tossed in the bin against the wall.
Along the perimeter of the building, I checked the flower beds for any damage from animals, and the path lights for tangled cords or stakes that had become dislodged. I glanced toward the cabins, but nothing was stirring. Nothing but green grass and rocky outcrops from here to the trees.
A rustle in the tree line, and I froze. It wouldn’t be the first time a bear emerged onto the clearing, drawn by curiosity, or food left behind by a guest. But it was just a deer there now, staring back at me on its own high alert. I took a single step forward, and it darted back into the woods. A quick flutter of movement through the brush, and then it was gone.
As I turned back, I noticed movement through the trees by the employee lot: Someone crouched low near the carriage house.
