The Last to Vanish(66)

And then there were the less common ones, inquiries bordering on demands—the ones that had slipped my notice. That question—Who took that picture?—was one of them. For all the times I’d sat at that bar, staring up at their photo, that was one I hadn’t asked.

Did Landon West think the picture came from this mysterious fifth member?

Interview 3 appeared less an interview at all, and more of an attempt at an interview.

Hi, I’m hoping to talk to Sheriff Stamer. Landon’s voice, slightly muffled, like it was coming through a layer of fabric. I pictured the phone in his pocket. All these people he was taping, without their knowledge.

Do you have an appointment? Rochelle rarely made me smile, but I appreciated the familiarity of her curt response, realizing her impatience wasn’t just directed my way.

No, I was hoping to find some information about the old cases here, for a book—

Sir, I can stop you right there. The sheriff isn’t going to talk to you for a book.

What about for curiosity, then?

Still no.

What about for an investigation?

Silence. I felt another twinge of familiarity, of déjà vu. It was the same, slithery way I’d remembered Landon West navigating a conversation. How quickly it snuck up on you, this feeling of wrong—that he was not the person you first believed him to be.

Well, Rochelle finally answered, slowly and carefully, as I’m sure you know, any investigation—I could picture her air quotes, her wry expression—would need to go through official channels. So I’d suggest you do just that, sir.

Landon West, he’d answered, as if she had asked. And then the rustling of fabric as he exited the building before the recording stopped.

I got a chill—I’d had no idea he’d stopped by the sheriff’s office, that he’d given his name. That they had any indication of who he was when he disappeared. But suddenly I realized: Everyone here knew. Rochelle and the sheriff, Ray and presumably the rest of his family. They knew who they were looking for when we called in the news of our missing guest. My memories of that initial search shifted. I tried to remember who had come out, and why. What they had offered, and when.

The date on Interview 4 was later in the week, in a morning.

Is it true, that the owners built this place all on their own?

My shoulders tightened, and I held my breath. I knew the words that came next, heard my own voice coming through, distant and muffled. Designed and planned from the ground up…

My god, he had been taping me, too. That morning when I’d exited the stairwell, surprised to find him there, looking at the pictures that lined the wall. He had repeated my responses often throughout the conversation, which I’d found unsettling but attributed to a quirk of his demeanor, an awkward social affect. Now I wondered if he was only repeating it for himself, to make sure the words recorded, for later.

How had he found this exchange worth saving? I listened to myself, to the haunting echo of my own voice. It was a conversation I had revisited and replayed many times after he’d gone missing. But why he’d kept it, I couldn’t understand.

But presumably there was something here that made him go to his journal and write my name: Abby??

Or had he sought me out, after something he’d learned? A question he had, just for me? Had he been waiting for me after all? As if he could see straight to the inside of all of us, the things we wanted to keep hidden.

There was only one more recording, and it was unlabeled, taken the evening before we’d noticed he’d disappeared. I wondered if it was from when I’d found him in the lobby.

But when I pressed “play,” it was only Landon West, talking to himself. He must’ve been making notes for the article he had been in the process of writing.

There are a group of residents who have been here for each disappearance. It’s a small town—over twenty-five years, it’s not an unreasonable number. Those aren’t bad odds.

A pause as I heard him typing. I could imagine him working on that document we’d found on his flash drive.

And then, a sudden knocking sound. Three raps, in quick succession. Someone at the door.

Just a second, he said loudly. I heard him curse under his breath, a rustling, and the thud of his feet against the floor, like he’d just slipped on his boots. And then the sound of him packing things away on the desk, a pause—heavy footsteps, another pause, as he hid a flash drive maybe.

Coming— And then the recording cut dead.

I stared at the phone, trying to process. That was it, the last thing he’d recorded. The night I’d seen him, in the inn, standing by the lobby phone. He’d presumably gone back to his room, to work on his article. And then someone knocked on his door.

My god, the person standing on the other side of that doorway—was the last person who saw him. Or worse.

I could feel them, this person out in the night, knocking on the door to his cabin.

I listened to the last recording again, from the start, trying to hear something in the background. Anything. A clue. Footsteps, or the way they spoke, or any words they called back. But it was the same, every time. A frustrating hole of silence.

Like I was losing him. Like I had gotten so close, and all of them were slipping through my fingers again.





CHAPTER 17


I’D FALLEN ASLEEP AFTER midnight more from necessity than anything else, curled up on the living room couch, with the curtains pulled securely shut and Landon West’s journal open on my chest. But I’d woken often and then early for good, every noise jolting me, making me picture the worst. Not an animal outside, but a person, crouching down, peering in. My imagination chasing down every thread.