The Last to Vanish(25)

Though I knew a person could slip through the window just as easily. One foot on an outer log, elbows on the windowsill, a body climbing through. I shuddered, brushing the image aside.

I slid the screen closed, and then the window, but when I tried to latch it shut, it wouldn’t engage at first. The slide was old and weatherworn, and I had to put my weight behind it to close the final gap. I cringed as the sound broke the silence.

A noise resounded from the wall to my right, almost in echo. I spun, expecting to confront whatever animal had found its way inside, but the room remained still. Nothing moved as I scanned the beam of light from my phone slowly across the wall.

Another scratching sound began from the space behind the wall, just as I was staring at it. Like an animal had become caught between the wood framing.

But then the noise deepened, solidified; too large to be a squirrel or mouse. No, something was scraping against the base of the wall. It had to be Trey West, on the other side of the divider. Shifting the desk. Dragging a suitcase.

I held my breath, tried not to make a sound. Had he heard me when I closed the window? Would he come to investigate and find me here, thinking I had been spying on him the night before? I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get it out of my head, the noises you said you heard, and came to check— Would he believe me?

The sudden sound of glass on glass made me jump. I tried to imagine it: Throwing a glass at the wall? An empty wine bottle, ricocheting to the floor? The noise didn’t seem violent enough. I was still trying to picture it when the distinct sound of a wooden chair scraped against the floor, like nails on a chalkboard. And suddenly I knew exactly what he was doing on the other side of the wall: He was cleaning the mess. Tossing the empty bottles of wine into the trash. Moving the rest of the furniture back to where it belonged.

I crept closer, ear to the wall, until I could imagine him clearly, the steps he was taking, the expression on his face. Coming toward me, turning away. Running his hand through his hair, bloodshot eyes searching the corners of the room for anything he had missed.

I decided to wait him out. I slid to the base of the wall, listening to his movements on the other side of the wood paneling, until I could imagine my breath syncing with his. Until I could feel his loss.

My mom used to tell me I should be careful not to let my imagination get the best of me, but then, she had always been a realist. She said she had to be, that life didn’t hand you any favors. She’d had me in her early twenties, raised me on her own, quit the job she’d loved, with the irregular hours running camps and clinics at the stables, for the steady and dependable one instead. But her practicality hadn’t done her any favors in the long run. She had died from a quick and aggressive bout with cancer when I was eighteen.

I’d done the only thing I could imagine doing in those months leading up to her death—I’d changed my mind about college, put my future on hold to stay with her; and then after, I’d packed up the things she’d left behind, and had no idea where to go next. The person I had been before felt like a stranger, like the future I’d once imagined belonged to someone else.

This, here, was never a future I’d have pictured for myself. But now I couldn’t imagine anything else.

If she were still alive, I knew she’d see nothing practical about me being here, either, but then, I had never been much like her in any way that counted.

I heard the soft shift of mattress springs, and I imagined Trey sitting on the edge of that four-poster bed, head in his hands, finally processing everything that had happened. The not knowing leading him down too many paths, dredging up too many memories. It felt too intimate, too close, and I wondered if he could sense me here, too.

Finally, the springs creaked again as he stood, and I heard his footsteps cross the room. Then: the hinge of the bathroom door, the squeak of a knob, and the shudder of pipes before the sound of running water in his shower muffled all the rest.

I took my chance, sneaking out as silently as I had entered. Locking the door behind me. Darting through the night, undetected, the same way I had arrived. Like a ghost.



* * *



I WAS PACKED AND ready to go for the hike by 5:45, riding the wave of adrenaline. I knew, even then, that I was on my way toward a crash—but I also knew from experience that it wouldn’t hit yet. You just had to keep moving. If nothing else, the mountain taught you that.

It was why, when hiking, I didn’t look too far ahead or too far back. In truth, I didn’t consider myself an expert, either. My primary experience was with this single expanse of trail to Shallow Falls. I knew it well, but I knew very little of what lay beyond it—I’d only done the trek up to the Appalachian once, with Sloane, through the famous pass that hugged the ravine, and I had no interest in doing it again.

I hadn’t even gone out on our trail since the search for Landon West. At first, it was a choice: I couldn’t walk out of sight of the inn alone without getting a chill, imagining all the things that could’ve happened to him. The pull of the safety of the inn, and the town full of people—people who would notice, look out for you, keep track of you. Eventually, like all things, it became habit. A thing. We’d hired Jack to be on call for summer weekends when he wasn’t leading Outward Bound programs in the deeper parts of the mountain. And, as much as I hated to admit it, I knew I could count on Cory to handle a last-minute request for a guided hike in the mornings during the week, without question. The guests loved him.