The Last to Vanish(12)

“Sure thing, just, while I have you, any changes to the order this week?” The Last Stop supplied the drinks and appetizers for our nightly happy hours. Georgia typically confirmed the orders each morning, adding more if the wine supply was running low. I would have to check when I was back.

“Let’s keep it the same,” I said.

She opened the door wider, gesturing me inside. “You’ve got a visitor, boss,” she called with a lopsided smile.

This was also why I remained in uniform. I knew I looked younger than twenty-eight, that without makeup, without the right attire, people were quick to overlook me otherwise. The memory of Cutter’s Pass was predominantly long-term, and I lacked the roots that tied so many of them together. Sheriff Stamer only paid me more attention than he would have otherwise because I was Celeste’s niece.

“What can I do for you, Abby?” the sheriff asked, swiveling on the stool. He looked as if he’d just gotten back from vacation, his pale skin pink across the bridge of his nose and his forehead, where his reddish-brown hair had begun to recede.

“I was wondering if there’ve been any recent updates to the West case,” I said, shifting on my feet. Something, I didn’t yet add, that might’ve drawn his brother here.

His mouth was a flat line, and Marina cast a quick glance to her husband. Ray looked down, dropping a crate on the countertop too hard, dishes rattling inside. Behind him, on the wall beside the liquor shelves, was the small photo of the Fraternity Four, the last picture of record, where visitors could raise a glass to the lost from the other side of the bar. The wooden frame had been securely nailed into the wall, after several unsuccessful attempts by visitors to nab it.

“You’re not the only one asking about that,” he said. “There’s definitely been some renewed interest the last couple weeks, but nothing to report.”

I imagined Trey at the sheriff’s office, attempting to nudge the gossip out of Rochelle at the front desk. I imagined him here at the tavern, acting like a tourist and nothing more.

“I told Cory not to talk about that case yet,” Ray mumbled. Cory was more like his mother in personality, who greeted everyone by name, always ready to lend an encouraging ear. But he looked more like his father—squared-off jawline, deep-set eyes, light brown skin, but with hair that fell like Marina’s, whenever he was in need of a haircut.

“It’s not his fault,” Sheriff Stamer said, brushing his arm across the countertop, as if cutting off a well-worn argument at the roots.

Long before he was the sheriff, Patrick Stamer and Ray Shiles grew up here together, friends since they were neighbors in childhood—and always a study in opposites, to hear anyone tell it. Patrick, redheaded and pale, skinny and tall. Whereas Ray was broad shouldered and stocky, with black hair, brown skin, dark eyes. As kids, the sheriff was loud and hot tempered, where Ray was the steady one.

Still, no one was surprised when Patrick became a deputy, as his father had been the sheriff then; or that Ray took over the tavern his parents had run for years prior. There was a sense of order here, of established expectations and stability. But since Patrick hadn’t married or had children, Ray and Marina were as close to family as he had, and any benefits of nepotism from the sheriff fell to Cory Shiles.

“It’s true,” Marina said. “The visitors this summer have all been asking about it.”

Marina loved town gossip, but Ray was opposed on principle, for the same reason as the sheriff.

They had been here when Landon West went missing this spring. And when Farrah Jordan disappeared, three winters earlier. And Alice Kelly, before that. And, of course, they had been here for the Fraternity Four, the start of it all. Back then, neither was much older than the missing young men. The Last Stop was just the Tavern, owned by Ray’s parents. The sheriff was just a new deputy. And Cutter’s Pass was just a small mountain town, known for its hiking and river activities, and its proximity to a steep and narrow pass that led to the Appalachian Trail.

Now Sheriff Stamer stood, smoothed out the sides of his beige pants, readjusted his thin brown tie. “It’s nothing, Abby. Just some of the tourists thinking they’ll be the ones to find something. This is how they get each time.” He almost smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes radiating outward. He’d aged a lot in the decade I’d known him, with the receding hairline, the weathered skin. But it fit him. Gave him that authority, that trustworthiness. “They’re not coming up your way asking questions, are they?” he asked.

“His brother checked in to the inn last night,” I said. “I wondered if something specific brought him here. Or if he’s just staying there for… sentimental reasons.”

The entire room fell silent. The only sign of movement was a twitch at the corner of the sheriff’s eye.

The details surrounding Landon West’s case were not easy for the town. The fact that he was a journalist, that he’d been working on a story about the string of disappearances here—it was hard to reconcile as coincidence. Bad optics, the sheriff had said. Difficult, for all involved.

It was clear that none of them had heard about Trey West’s arrival yet.

Sheriff Stamer breathed in deeply, splintering the moment. “He hasn’t come my way, if that’s what you’re asking.” He hitched his pants by the belt loops, tucked the paper under his arm. “Listen, Abby, the brother wasn’t around in the spring when it all went down. My guess, he’s here to pay his respects. Deal with his guilt. His grief. Best to let him do that.”