The Last to Vanish(40)



But the rest of my shift, I couldn’t shake the suspicion. Thinking over the last few days, the people who had been in and out. The happy hours we had each night. The people we welcomed into the inn.

I was still shaken and not fully engaged when the group of six finally returned from their hike, asking for a first aid kit. The man with the ruddy cheeks—Mr. Lorenzo—had an arm around his wife, supporting her as she hobbled over with an openly bleeding wound from her knee.

“Oh no,” I said, reaching for the supply of bandages kept in a bin under the desk.

“Looks worse than it is,” she said with a laugh. I thought, from the look of it and the glint of her eyes, that it would feel a lot worse once the numb of the alcohol wore off.

“Someone should take a look at that,” I said. I thought it would probably need stitches, so I handed them the urgent care number at the same time as the bandage kit, along with their reservation for tomorrow.

Even as they were heading for the steps to the second floor, their loud voices carrying behind them, I was imagining a very different sequence of events: a cut knee, and no one to help her, sitting on the edge of a rock and waiting for help that wouldn’t come—

The front door of the inn opened again, and Georgia breezed in, several plastic bags slung over both arms, the plastic digging into her skin. “Hey there,” she said.

“Hey,” I said, making space for her as she deposited the bags on top of the registration desk.

“Refills for the mini-fridge,” she said, pulling out two cases of sparkling water in the flavors we liked best. She brought them to the back office, and I considered not asking her, not ruining the change in her demeanor—but I had to know the other possibilities.

“Georgia,” I said when she returned with one of the raspberry beverages, “have you let anyone new into the basement recently?”

She turned slowly, bottle already halfway to her mouth.

“I don’t mean…” I waved my arm between us, uselessly. Her private life was not my business. I started again. “I think we need to start keeping a list of the maintenance workers coming and going.”

She took a step closer. “Why?” Her eyes had gone wide, the worry already taking root.

“The phone lines are fixed,” I said, “but I think the box was damaged. Would just be good to know who’s been down there, in case something bigger happens.”

She took a small sip, eyes still fixed on mine, and I wasn’t sure if she believed me. She started gathering the other grocery bags, busying herself, not saying, for once, whatever she was thinking. Then she paused, watching me closely. “You know, my dad was always the one person I could trust,” she said. “I didn’t live with him. But he was the one person who really saw me. Who would tell it to me straight. Even if I didn’t want to hear it.” I had a habit of closing off when Georgia brought up her father, as if losing a parent bound us together. Meanwhile, her mother was still alive, though apparently they didn’t get along. But now I thought she was saying something about me, about us. About trust.

Georgia seemed highly attuned to the potential for danger, but I believed she only saw it in the obvious places: an empty room; a dropped call; a search in the woods.

All these things we saw coming. The real danger came in the places we didn’t see it, without warning. Trey’s arrival; the cut phone lines; the hidden flash drive—

“Georgia,” I said, “it’s going to be okay.”

I was not naive to Georgia’s presence here; you don’t turn up at an inn and stay on a whim. Not when you have money and resources. Not without cause.

“Okay,” she said, almost at a whisper. We stood that way, eyes locked, until the teenager from the Last Stop startled us, stepping inside with the first batch of supplies for happy hour.



* * *



HAPPY HOUR WAS JUST about over when the sheriff arrived, still in uniform. I looked for Trey behind him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Sheriff Stamer caught my eye and slowly walked across the room, greeting the few lingering guests as he did. Hope you’re enjoying the stay. Did you make it down to the falls yet? Keeping things pleasant and surface-level fine.

“Just wanted to check in, since I knew you’d be wondering,” he said when he was close enough for the conversation to remain private.

“Everything go okay with Trey?”

He tipped his head side to side. “Just dropped him off. Ended up taking him out to lunch while we went over everything that happened over the spring.” He drummed his fingers on the surface. “He seemed surprised by how much was done. How much we all searched.”

He waited for the kid to take the trays out to the van before leaning closer. “He showed me the photos. Said you saw them, too?”

I nodded. “What do you make of them?”

“They’re just photos. And honestly, they confirm what we assumed. I checked, they were taken the same day and with the same camera specifications we have on file for Farrah Jordan’s missing property.”

I didn’t even think to do that, to look at what other information was available in the photos.

“So someone had the camera?” I asked.

“Seems that way,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Could’ve been someone found it out there, with no idea what it was.” That was possible, I agreed. But someone figured it out. Someone put it together. Someone had passed these photos along to Landon West, as a tip.

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