The Last to Vanish(33)
She looked up, face relaxing. “Yes, thanks. We were trying to get some extra towels upstairs, but the line was busy. Thought it would be quicker to come down here myself.” From the expression on her face, it was clear that it had not been quicker.
“Let me get that for you,” I said, sliding my backpack against the wall, unzipping the pouch where I stored my master set of keys. But they were unnecessary—the door to the back office was unlocked, and Georgia was situated at the table, pen in hand, a pile of receipts to the side and a list of names in front of her.
“Oh my god, you scared me,” she said, hand to heart. She looked at the clock hanging on the wall and started stacking the receipts together.
“Mountain View Two is out there, looking for towels.”
She craned her long neck toward the door. “Shit, I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”
I grabbed two towels from the supply we kept here in the storage cabinets, just in case of situations like this. “I need you to cover another hour. Sorry,” I added, since we were throwing apologies around.
“Oh, I—” Her eyes skimmed the room, like she was searching for an excuse.
“Please,” I added, which was something I rarely had to ask her.
She nodded once, mouth a set line, then seemed to finally notice my attire. “How did it go?” She must’ve seen the note I’d left her this morning about taking a guest on a hike.
“It was fine,” I said. “I just need to shower before running into town for a bit.”
I wasn’t sure why I was keeping the details from Georgia. Whether I was trying to protect her or him. Whether I felt there was something worth hiding.
“I’ve got this.” Georgia stood and took the towels from me, heading for the lobby. “So sorry, Mrs. Miller, I didn’t notice you out here.”
While she was handling the towel situation, I pulled out my phone and placed a call to Harris. He dealt with a variety of the inn’s maintenance issues, as needed, but he specialized in cables and electricity. Like most people at the inn other than Celeste and Georgia and me, Harris was someone we contracted with, rather than employed. He didn’t live in Cutter’s Pass, but just outside the town perimeter, on a plot of land between jurisdictions that had been in his family for several generations. He hadn’t lived here when I’d first arrived. He moved back about five years ago when he was starting his business, and now he was often the first place I called.
When he didn’t pick up, I left a message. “Harris, it’s Abby at the inn. We’re having some issues with the phone line. Do you have some time to swing by to check it out?”
Georgia was still in conversation with Mrs. Miller when I left the office. I swooped my pack onto one shoulder, lifted my hand as I passed, mouthed a quick Thank you, caught a slight smile in response.
I wasn’t paying attention as I descended the steps toward the basement, but as I stood in the fluorescent-lit hall, I immediately felt the presence of someone else: The sound of heavy breathing. Something shuffling nearby.
Georgia was upstairs and Celeste moved with a distinct lightness and no one else was on the schedule to be here. Housekeeping came in the afternoon. The linens had been delivered yesterday.
My heart was pounding as I let the bag slide from my shoulder. I propped it against the wall as quietly as I could.
Keeping my eyes forward, I reached for the bear spray in the side compartment, instead of my knife. It felt more realistic, more useful.
And then a familiar voice came from the nearest storage room. “Someone out there?” His voice was muffled through the closed door.
“Jesus, Cory,” I said, leaving the bear spray where it was.
The door of the storage room swung open, and he stepped out, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead. Then he smirked as he looked at the bag and the way I was hovered over it. “What were you doing? Planning your attack?” He leaned forward, nudged the bag with his foot. “What were you going for?”
I crossed my arms. “Bear spray,” I said, and he laughed once, loudly, head thrown back. “What are you doing down here, Cory?”
He shrugged, stepped back inside the storage unit. “Celeste asked for some help.”
Inside, he had a metal dolly, stacked with boxes that had been pulled down from the shelves that lined the cinder-block walls, each marked with Vincent’s name. Behind him, the back wall was lined with boxes—financial documents from years past, in case we were ever audited, old photos and personal items that had been here for thirty years but didn’t fit in any closets in the carriage house, and labeled bags of things left behind by guests. The other shelves held packs of toiletries and new pillows, fresh linens and towels that we had delivered each week. There was one large gray garbage-can-style bin just inside the door—the lost and found bin.
The other storage closet, closer to the exit, held the outdoor furniture, the cleaning supplies, tools, and maintenance gear. But the personal stuff was all in here. The material that kept things moving, kept our history. I watched as Cory moved a few boxes off the top shelf of the far wall, finding another labeled Vincent. “You’re taking Vincent’s things?”
He dropped a box onto the dolly with a huff. “She wants to organize the paperwork. Apparently everything is in his name. I don’t ask questions.”
No, no one here did. And that was the problem.