The Last to Vanish(14)
“Five,” he repeated. “Yes. Hey, is there food on-site normally? Like, for lunch?”
“No,” I said. “There’s a tavern at the edge of town.” I couldn’t bring myself to say the name, which now seemed offensive, in bad taste. “It’s the first place you’ll hit if you walk down. There are plenty of cafés scattered through the downtown, and ice cream shops. Sometimes there’ll be other vendors set up on the green. It’s all walkable. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, Abby.”
When I hung up, Georgia traipsed out of the back room. “Doing a walk-through before calling it a day,” she said. “Anything else you need after?”
Most afternoons, she handled the room turnover; said she found the cleaning and prepping a soothing routine. A simple monotony. Which was how she discovered Landon West’s empty cabin at one in the afternoon on his checkout date, two hours after it should’ve been vacated.
The problem, the police quickly realized, was that we weren’t sure exactly which day he went missing. He’d kept largely to himself, for his stay. And there wasn’t a daily cleaning service in the outside cabins.
By the time he was discovered missing, any trail that might’ve existed was untraceable. It had rained early that morning, a quick rush of water over the trails, the roads, the grass in front of the cabin.
It still haunted her, I knew. It haunted all of us.
“Go,” I said. “Enjoy your afternoon.” Even though I knew Georgia would spend the rest of the day keeping to the grounds, as she’d been doing ever since Landon West’s disappearance. She’d change first, thinking she could blend in with the guests—so different from my own approach. I felt the opposite: Always in danger of fading into the background. Always feeling the need to remind people I was here.
* * *
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, A pizza delivery arrived in the lobby. A teen I had come to recognize as a regular throughout the summer popped his head inside but remained in the entrance. “Cabin Four?” he asked.
I waved him on, sure he already knew the layout of the property.
It occurred to me that Trey West hadn’t left that room since he arrived last night.
I started watching the clock as it crept closer to the time I would see him again. Imagining a do-over of the night before, where this time I was capable, no longer caught on my heels: What are you interested in doing while you’re here? Anything I can help set up? What do you want?
The Shermans returned just before three. They appeared to be somewhere in their fifties, and both seemed relatively fit, but they looked a little worse for the wear after their hike.
“Which trail did you do today?” I asked, smiling.
“Shallow Falls,” the wife answered, peering out the window for a moment.
“How was it?” I asked.
“Took twice as long coming back than going,” the husband said, running his palm across his forehead, leaving a streak of dirt behind. “But worth it,” he added, smiling at his wife.
The Shallow Falls Trail was tricky like that. You had to be careful not to misjudge when you left. The path to the falls was rocky and meandering, weaving around roots—and the addition of a recent rain made the footing unstable on the way down.
“The falls were beautiful. Stunning, really,” she added. She had a metal water bottle in her free hand, and she passed it to her husband.
“Please thank Georgia for us,” the husband said, still a little out of breath. “She was right, about the map, and about needing these.” He dropped the walking sticks in the bin, the bases most likely coated in mud—I’d take care of that when they were out of sight.
When they were halfway down the hall, heading toward the stairs that would take them to one of the three Mountain View rooms on the second floor, I checked them off Georgia’s list for today, then closed the binder, slipped it under the countertop. Everyone safe and accounted for.
The Shallow Falls Trail—that was the one behind our property. The one made famous for the disappearances. We were more careful now. We kept a closer watch.
* * *
BY THE TIME HAPPY hour was approaching, I hadn’t received the food delivery yet, and I was getting anxious. Or maybe it was the thought of Trey West, due any moment.
I kept peering out the office window, in between people stopping by the lobby. And when the older couple staying in Eagle’s Nest on the top floor came down fifteen minutes early, completely in character—early for checkin, early for happy hour, early for breakfast—I went ahead and gathered a crate of the wine from inventory.
Through the tempered glass panel, I could see a blue vehicle parked in front of the doors, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The Last Stop Tavern owned a blue, nondescript van, driven by a variety of their employees.
I opened a few of the bottles, setting out the glassware and the small plates, when Marina opened the front door, propping it ajar.
“Sorry, running a little behind today,” she said while I pasted on a grin.
I was too surprised by her presence to react. Usually, one of their teenage employees brought up the trays of food, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the Last Stop logo.
But Marina was out of uniform, and looked like she had plans for the evening. Her hair was uncharacteristically down, curls defined with gel, and she’d lined her eyes, wore her wedding rings—which I never saw while she was working, typically.