The Last to Vanish(24)

But over time, I’d come to appreciate it—love it, even. I grew to know this place through Celeste’s eyes, her perspective bleeding over into mine. She had a faith in this world she had built that was impossible to doubt. A belief in the decency and ability of the people she surrounded herself with, a group that now included me—so that it was impossible not to see those same traits in myself. This inn, she believed, would withstand anything, with its strong foundation and reinforced walls. We were a self-contained universe, and I was a necessary part of it.

Even with all of its notorious history—from the Fraternity Four to Landon West—most days, I still saw it that way.

But now I felt unsettled by those same elements, bound by the concrete walls, unable to hear anything that might be happening beyond the confines of my apartment. I needed to hear someone else’s voice on the other end of the line. A connection. Georgia was just across the hall, but nothing comforting could come from waking her up at this time of night. Sloane would probably still be camping out of range—and if not, she’d be catching up on some much-needed sleep. I stared at the phone, considering. Remembering, years earlier, calling Cory deep in the night, just to hear the familiar rumble of his voice, feel that connection.

Instead, I slipped on my sneakers, tucked my key card into my back pocket, and ventured out of my room. The basement was lit by the always-on soft-glow safety lights in the stairwell, leading up.

The inn was entirely quiet as I stepped out from the employee entrance to the first-floor hallway, slowly easing the door shut behind me. The gas lamps that lined the lobby gave it a gentle ambiance—but were dim enough to remind our guests that this was not a place to linger after hours.

On the wall behind the registration desk hung the locked display case of room keys. This was a danger, of course, if you were looking for it: an inventory of which rooms were occupied, and which were not. It didn’t matter, typically, since most every room was booked inside the main building. And we had an electronic badge that could be placed on the silver square above each room handle, disengaging the lock.

But not for the cabins. Nothing had been upgraded, technology-wise, out there. Those accommodations generally appealed to a different clientele.

We had a master set of keys to every room, which we kept in the lockbox in the back office, along with the key for the display case, each labeled in a small manila envelope. This was where Georgia would’ve gone to replace the lost key to Mountain View One. Eventually I’d have to call in for a replacement to be made. But for now, I riffled through the manila envelopes until I found the one marked Cabin 3.

To avoid the front-path lights, I exited out the back onto the deck. In the mornings, we propped this door open for the breakfast crowd, but now, as the door swung shut behind me, the light went with it. I leaned forward until my hands brushed the iron rungs of the chair at the nearest table, using the furniture to guide myself until my eyes adjusted to the dark. I inched down the steps by memory, onto the grassy expanse, tracing the edge of the inn, hand grazing stone, until the outlines of the cabins appeared in the distance, darker shadows against the night.

A small line of path lights trailed from the cabins toward the front of the inn, but there were no lights coming from any of the cabins themselves. Not even from Cabin Four, where I couldn’t imagine Trey West actually sleeping. Unless he’d had even more wine than I’d thought.

I approached the cabin steps carefully, quietly, making sure the curtains on his front window were closed before easing my key into the lock for the cabin next door, all too aware of every noise. I was used to the nighttime sounds, but now, I felt overexposed and vulnerable.

A twig cracking to my right; something rustling in the leaves overhead; the gentle thud of the lock disengaging.

I eased the door closed behind me, holding my breath as the latch clicked shut, then used the light on my phone to illuminate the corners of the room. Empty, as expected. And undisturbed. Just an unexpected chill circulating through the room, but that could’ve been the hour, the dark, all the things I had been imagining that had brought me to this point.

The queen bed was made; the bathroom door was closed; the guidebook was left on the center of the desk. Nothing appeared out of place. All the furniture had been positioned in the mirror image of the cabin next door, so that the desk in this room was pressed up against the same spot as the desk in Trey West’s room.

And then I listened: silence, mostly. Except for a faint whistling coming from the back wall. I took a step in that direction, thinking there might be a crack in the window frame. The closer I got, the more I could feel it—a hiss of cool night air filtering through a gap somewhere.

I ran my fingers along the borders of the window frame, but instead of finding a crack, there was an open expanse between the glass and the frame. The window was unlatched, pushed slightly ajar, probably from the last time someone was staying here. Something Georgia must’ve missed in her follow-up routine. Out of character, considering how she’d been almost compulsive in her routines since Landon West’s disappearance, checking and rechecking rooms and guest lists, as if everyone was always in danger of disappearing.

My fingers stretched through the gap into the open air—the screen worked in a similar way, sliding open and closed, and it, too, was currently ajar. Most likely, the noises Trey heard last night had indeed been an animal. Maybe not a squirrel in the eaves, but something else: a nocturnal creature slipping in through the gap of the window, flying or scampering around the abandoned room.