The Last to Vanish(19)

Whatever that lead was, it didn’t exist in any email correspondences with colleagues. It hadn’t been shared with anybody who came forward, looking for him, or looking for the reward offered by his family. It hadn’t been stored on his laptop, either, which was left behind in his room on the surface of that desk

“My parents went through all his things, I know. But I didn’t.”

“You think they missed something? That you’re going to find it now?”

“I think if there’s something worth finding, it’ll be me, yeah.”

Everyone who arrived here came with that same feeling—that they would be the one to crack it, somehow. It was almost a compulsion, but it never played out.

Trey sighed. “It’s not just the phone. He also kept a notebook on him, one of those small leather ones. Always had it. I thought it was so fucking pretentious.” He laughed to himself before dropping onto the edge of the bed.

“You think you’re going to find a notebook?”

I looked at the surface of the desk again. Trey had packed a screwdriver, had come here with the intention of taking this place apart. But there weren’t many hiding places.

He raised his arms in some exaggerated, exhausted shrug. “When we were teenagers, he hid things from our parents in a vent like that…” His eyes drifted to the open grate, and he shook his head. “It was stupid to think. But there has to be something. There’s nothing on his computer? He was here for almost a week. What the hell was he doing here, then?”

“I’m sorry, I wish I had answers for you. But there’s nothing in this room. Everyone has already been through it.” I swallowed. “We all searched for him. Went out every morning. For weeks, Trey.”

He looked over at me, mouth slightly parted, before his eyes drifted shut. “Yeah,” he said, still sitting on the edge of the bed, running his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry about…” He waved his hand around the cabin. “He’s not an experienced hiker. Do you think…”

I didn’t like to think about it, didn’t want to talk about all the ways something could go wrong out there. The rumors of people who tried to take shelter in some hidden place in bad weather, becoming trapped. The stories of hikers stepping off trail, getting disoriented and unable to find their way back.

“Here,” I said, “just, let’s move this back. Help me with the bed.”

He returned to the headboard, and I braced my hands on the nearest post, but when I put my weight behind it, the oval top of the wooden post popped off in my hand, the sound reverberating.

I had maybe two seconds to decide what to do, and by then, it was too late. Trey’s eyes locked on mine.

I waited for him to look first, in case he didn’t think of it.

He quickly circled the bed, reached his fingers inside the wood cavity, his fingers coming out coated in dust and black glue. It was empty. But now we knew: these posts weren’t firmly secured. A new possibility suddenly revealed itself.

Trey went around to the second post and pulled off the oval top with little effort—empty—and then the third, while I stood there, frozen and useless.

His hand stilled inside the third cavity. He stood on his toes, his breathing coming too fast as he peered inside before revealing something small and black inside the palm of his fist.

There was a moment I thought: bug, cockroach, something gross but safer, in the long run. He held his arm in my direction, slowly unfurling his fist: a small, black, rectangular square. It was a flash drive.

We stared at each other, and I knew we both believed that this had once belonged to Landon West.



* * *



IT TOOK FIVE MINUTES for Trey to realize he had nothing to read it with. His laptop, which he’d dug out of his bag, didn’t have a port to read this flash drive directly, and he didn’t have the right attachment. He leaned over the desk, cursing at the screen, while I hovered behind him, picking the side of my nail, wondering what to do, what to say.

“It might not be his,” I said.

But all he did was shoot an incredulous look over his shoulder. I imagined him leaving. Going back home. Taking whatever that rectangular drive contained with him—any answers, out of reach.

“I think the computer at reception might have a port,” I said, breaking the silence.

Trey straightened, staring back at me, like he was deciding something. Then he nodded quickly, the idea gathering momentum. “Okay, yes, let’s go.”

Outside the cabin, he led the way down the lit path, and I could suddenly see a thousand possibilities branching out in front of me. A thousand directions this could go.

Inside, the lobby was empty, the steady flame in the gas fireplace the only movement. I brought the computer to life, then waited while it prompted me for a password.

Trey took the hint and stepped back, so I signed in and held out my hand for the flash drive.

My hand shook as I slid it in, and I was half-surprised when a drive popped up on the screen in front of me. For the briefest second, I considered wiping it clean. Maybe the answers we searched for were not the ones we wanted.

But then Trey leaned in close, and I clicked it open. A password box appeared, and Trey sighed just next to my ear. “Try 9-8-7-6. It was his password for everything growing up, and I swear he never changed it. He’s always been a creature of habit.”