The Last to Vanish(57)

And then they both left, my shift officially beginning in the absence of anyone else.



* * *



ROCHELLE HAD SAID THE ravine was full of bones, and sometimes it felt like the whole town was. That I would live here and die here and disappear with all the rest, indistinguishable.

Recently, I had started to feel trapped. That this place was a prison, instead of a sanctuary. A car that was not in my name, and a home that came with the job—everything tangled together, holding me here.

But in other ways, I felt the immortality of the place. The way the names were remembered. The mystery of it, bigger than any one person. The way Jack called me Abby from the inn, and I’d become a part of this town, had a role in it that would endure, like the photos that lined our walls. I could picture myself there, alongside Celeste, alongside Vincent. Could picture the people who would come after, taking a closer look, wondering at the mystery of who I used to be. True proof of life.

I disappeared into the back office, where the service was best, and sent the picture I’d taken earlier in the week to Sloane—with the fog lifting off the mountain, eerie and haunting. A reminder that I was here, should someone come looking.

I felt so close to the bones of this place. Something horrible was happening here. Something baser, more disturbing, inescapable.

What had truly happened here was not the same as the mysteries or rumors told at the tavern, or the picture on the wall over the bar, or the last image planted in our collective mind by sheer force of rumor: Farrah Jordan, at the trailhead, staring off into the woods; Alice Kelly, walking out the front door of the tavern, disappearing into the busy evening rush; the Fraternity Four, walking down the middle of the street, the mountain looming in the distance, with the setting sun.

Those images weren’t real. Reality was Farrah standing over me in the inn, asking about Alice Kelly. Reality was the photos posted by Alice’s sister, trying to keep her memory alive, reminding us who she really was. I wanted—needed—more.

I pulled up Farrah’s profile, scanning the images she was tagged in. Then went to the AliceKellyWasHere Instagram account one more time, looking not only at her bag, but at her. The account was public, and so was the one I was viewing from—a well-followed and long-running account in the inn’s name. On impulse, I sent a private message.

Hi, I stumbled upon your beautiful tribute to your sister. We are helping the town collect some photos as the ten-year anniversary approaches, and wondered if you might be willing to share some more recent photos?

The front door of the inn opened, and I went out front to greet our guest, to try and lose myself in the rhythm of the inn, the daily routines that I had come to love. I helped this place run, knew if I left, my absence would be felt strongly. In the same way Vincent’s was when I first arrived.

I tried not to think of the others: Farrah, who no one noticed until her car was found abandoned; Landon, and his empty room.

Checkin after checkout, question after request, I counted the hours until I could retreat into my room, into the closet, into that bag. Marina came for happy hour, and I tried to act like the version of myself she knew best, helping her set out the food, nodding in all the right places.

But I couldn’t meet her eye, not when I was imagining all the things Cory might be capable of.

Then I helped Marina clean up, escorting the rest of the guests out, checking the clock again. Almost time. Almost done. The sun had set, and I was finally alone, had just placed the sign at the phone to tell anyone how to reach me for any issues.

The front door opened again, and I took a deep breath, dropped my shoulders, preparing for one last guest.

But the only person in the lobby, waiting for me, was Trey West.





CHAPTER 15


“IS NOW A GOOD time?” Trey asked, looking around the empty lobby. I wondered what he was doing in town earlier—who he was talking to. I must’ve nodded, because he continued. “I was hoping we could talk somewhere in private.”

“Sure,” I said as his eyes drifted to the back office. But I didn’t like the idea of feeling trapped with this man I had misjudged. I had lost the upper hand; didn’t know whether he’d been snooping around—following me, noticing when I was gone, taking that binder. Maybe when I thought I was watching him, he was really the one watching me. Should I really have been surprised? He’d played a false hand at his arrival; when I’d caught him in it, he just needed to shift his act.

“We can sit out back,” I said, leading him down the hall, flipping the floodlights on before stepping out onto the wooden deck. A place where I could be seen. Where I could get out. His brother’s journal was in the basement of this inn, and I needed to keep him far away from it.

Trey sat in a metal chair across from mine, a circular wrought iron table between us. Gnats swarmed in the glare of the light beside the door, a moth gently tapping against the bulb. He wore faded jeans and a partially fitted black T-shirt, and his ankles were visible over the top of his sneakers, and he did not fit in here at all.

He rested his forehead in his hand, then straightened, pushing his hair back, like Georgia might do.

“My brother stopped at my parents’ place on the way down here,” he said. The hollows under his eyes appeared darker in the shadows, his scar brighter, in contrast. “Spent a night in the same room he grew up in.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. “Landon was always the good son. The one who kept up with them. I was the wanderer.”