The Last to Vanish(16)

But the town had done the opposite to him; Cutter’s Pass had complicated his understanding, taken something instead. Marina was right—there was one sure way to get him out of here, and I was well on my way to achieving it, by putting him in that room. Not in an act of kindness, as I’d thought, but cruelty.

Marina stepped aside as Trey approached the registration desk, and I tried to look unfazed by the pronounced shift in his demeanor. “Glad you could make it,” I said.

He nodded, distracted, as he pulled out his credit card, a faint tremble to his hand this time. There was a scratch on the back of his wrist that I didn’t remember seeing yesterday.

As I ran his card, his gaze drifted to the barrel of walking sticks. “Weren’t there umbrellas in this yesterday?”

“There were,” I said. “Today seemed like more of a walking stick day.” I smiled, trying to get his face to mirror my own. Standing so close, I could see the twitch of a muscle at the corner of his eye.

“That’s it, right?” he began, turning to the back window for a moment. The mountain, invisible last night, now the million-dollar view. “The Vanishing Trail?” His voice dropped, and my throat tightened.

That’s what they called it, the visitors who were more interested in the myth than the people. Who were more captivated by the mystery than the reality.

“Yes, that’s the trail to Shallow Falls,” I corrected. “But you can’t do it now.” Not with the rapidly setting sun, the narrowing of the path, the lack of clarity and direction. “You’ll never make it back in time.”

His gaze was hooked on that mountain still, and I needed to pull him back.

“You know, we offer guided tours. For safety. I can take you tomorrow.” The words were out before I could consider them, weigh them. I cleared my throat. “But it would have to be early. I need to be back by lunch.”

He slowly turned my way, eyes slightly unfocused. “That would be great,” he said.

Sheriff Stamer walked in just then. He was in uniform, and he surveyed the room, shaking hands and greeting guests. He smiled at Marina, and I wondered if they had coordinated their visits. Whether they’d returned to whispering across the bar top after I left the tavern this morning, formulating a plan. Or if each was just drawn here by their own curiosity, no better than the trauma tourists. But then, the sheriff was here enough on his own—he’d been known to bring groceries and deliveries for Celeste, and often picked her up for the Sunday-morning service at the chapel in town.

“Hi, Abby,” the sheriff called just as Trey retreated toward the display of drinks. “Is Celeste making an appearance tonight?”

“No, she—”

But then there she was, as if manifested by his words, coming around the corner of the hall, in a flowing green tunic that brought out her eyes, transformed her to something at one with this place, with the surroundings. When you couldn’t help but remember that these were the walls she had built, the floor she had laid, on her knees beside Vincent, in prayer to something else. That there was a history inside these rooms, and every marred surface, every chosen detail. It was no surprise that her beaded bracelet matched the bowl on the end table by the window, both made from the same artist and sold at the farmers’ market on the town green on Saturday mornings.

“Glad you could make it, Patrick,” she said, joining the group, and now I was wondering if it was she who had orchestrated this. She extended her hand, and the sheriff took it between the two of his, giving her a soft squeeze, a gentle smile, before moving on.

The lobby had filled up with guests, with visitors, with us. Only Georgia was missing.

I sank back against the wall, taking in the entirety of the room, the way everything clicked and moved and connected.

There were the Shermans, cleaned up from their hike, talking with Celeste, who nodded along to their animated story.

There were the trio of room reservations who had coordinated their trip together, now gathered in a boisterous circle in front of the windows, laughing too loudly and going through their drinks at a pace that even I found impressive.

There was the small child, a rarity, hands reaching up to sort through a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. I quickly followed behind, removing the food he’d touched.

When I looked up again, Marina and Sheriff Stamer were standing in a small circle with Trey West.

Marina handed Trey a fresh glass of red wine, which he took, depositing his empty one on the counter beside him. The sheriff was patting his shoulder. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Trey still had that glazed look on his face, and didn’t seem to be contributing much to the conversation.

The sheriff quickly moved on, only for Celeste to slide into his place. I heard her welcoming him, hands clasped together, I hope you’re having a lovely stay, like she had no idea who he was.

“Abby?” A man with ruddy cheeks and an empty wineglass stepped into my vision.

It took me a moment to pull his name. “Mr. Lorenzo, how can I help you?”

It turned out, how I could help was by making a reservation for their group of six during peak season at peak hours at CJ’s Hideaway, which required a text to the hostess’s cell from the back office, and the luck of a cancellation.

When I returned to the lobby, eyes skimming the crowd, Trey was gone.

Sheriff Stamer ambled my way, wide stance, straight posture, like he knew he was being watched. He rested an arm on the counter, turned so he was partly facing the room while speaking with me. “I feel bad for the kid,” he said. “But he seems like he’s processing.” Even though Trey was nowhere near a kid, probably older than I was, even.