The Last to Vanish(22)

Trey closed the folder, and my tentative grasp on Farrah went with it. He clicked on the unmarked Word document.

The first thing I noticed was the heading: A Notorious History

The document was just a few paragraphs long, and it seemed to be the introduction to whatever piece Landon West was planning to write. I leaned close to Trey, my eyes burning, as I skimmed the words. He listed the statistics of our town, from our geography to our population, capping it off with the six visitors who had gone missing. I did not miss the thinly veiled accusations within: the fact that the people in Cutter’s Pass wanted you to believe it was just coincidence.

But whichever person you are, believer or disbeliever, Cutter’s Pass welcomes you equally.

The truth is—

And then, midline, the document just stopped.

“What the hell?” Trey said, moving the cursor down, as if more of his brother’s thoughts would magically appear. A thought frustratingly unfinished, forever lost to us. “What was he starting to write? The truth is what?”

I read it again, searching for more. Trey must’ve been doing the same, because just as I finished, he muttered, “Goddammit, Landon. Of course he would just leave it unfinished.” As if this were all Landon’s fault, some selfishness that managed to carry over even now, never thinking of the people who might be searching for him.

I imagined Landon sitting at the small wooden desk in Cabin Four, a noise outside the window distracting him. I imagined a sudden knock on his door and Landon calling back, One moment, as he frantically removed the drive, hiding it away in the one place he thought no one would go looking. I imagined the precursors to danger, something that had gone horribly wrong.

Trey stepped back from the computer, took out his cell, and held it in front of him. “I can’t get any signal,” he said, crossing the lobby, holding his phone closer to the windows facing the mountain—which was the very wrong direction to try.

I quickly copied the contents of the flash drive onto the lobby computer, before Trey took it all back, out of reach. Things had a way of disappearing here, after all.

“Who are you calling?” I asked, my mind running through the sequence of events about to be unleashed once more: a thorough search of the cabin and maybe more, a series of interviews asking us to confirm and reconfirm each other’s statements—our memories harder to be sure of now, suspicion taking root in the gaps.

“I don’t…” He turned slowly to face me, corners of his mouth tipped down, like he hadn’t quite considered that point. “He hid this, Abby. He knew he was in danger.”

“Just—” I held my hands out, trying to get him to calm down, think things through. There were other possibilities; it didn’t have to be true.

I imagined, instead, Landon West cleaning up before he went hiking for the day. Protective of his work. Worried, more, about someone snooping through his things, uncovering what he was working on.

“You said he was secretive about his work,” I said. “Right?”

Trey tilted his head. “There’s a difference between not telling your colleagues what you’re working on and hiding a flash drive inside a piece of furniture in a shitty cabin in the middle of nowhere.” A pause. “No offense.” His words were starting to slur, and I remembered the empty bottles of wine, the state of his room, the threat of danger lingering just under the surface of him.

“Look, everyone knew he was working on a new angle into Cutter’s Pass. And here it is.” I gestured at the computer screen with the unfinished document currently front and center. “There’s nothing here, really. Nothing he would need to be worried about. This isn’t new information.” Other than the folder marked with Farrah’s name—a tip. A way in.

“Or,” he said, “someone could’ve gone through his room, taken his journal and phone, and this was the only thing they missed.”

There were only so many of us who had access to that cabin. He seemed to be forgetting that he was accusing me, just as much as anyone else. If this was what he believed, if this was what he told someone, I knew exactly how the investigation would go: Celeste, Georgia, me. Those were the options. There would be no escaping it.

He started pacing again, staring at the screen of his cell. “It’s like we’re in a fucking dead zone,” he mumbled.

“You can use the lobby phone,” I said, picking up the receiver from its spot at the reception desk. But, once more, it wasn’t connecting. I replaced it in the cradle, knew I’d have to call Harris in the morning to check the lines for damage. I took out my cell instead. “I can usually get service in the office. The sheriff’s office is closed, but I can probably reach him, if that’s who you want.” I’d have to go through Rochelle, or Cory, but I could do it. A reminder—to him, to myself—that I was a part of this place. That there was a web binding us all together.

But Trey just frowned. “I don’t know…” The purpose seemed to be draining from him, like he had only just realized the hour. Maybe he was thinking of calling his parents, a girlfriend, a friend—?“The FBI has jurisdiction on the Appalachian Trail, right?”

I cleared my throat, remembering the waves of investigators who had been involved in the disappearances in the past, the way their presence had altered everything, changing your perspective, your behavior. “That,” I said, gesturing toward the computer, the photos that we’d just seen, “isn’t the Appalachian.” Maybe Farrah had made it that far, but there was no evidence of it. No, this was still just a trail in Cutter’s Pass, a town famous for disappearing people.