The Last to Vanish(7)

I had imagined hard ground and poor packing; a man she was trying to impress, who was not impressed with her; I had imagined her waking up that morning, staring at the top of her tent, or the burned-out remnants of a campfire, or the heavy pack and the trail disappearing into the distance—and bailing.

It had seemed, from the way she had arrived, that she could not, in fact, do the hard things. But Celeste had been looking for more help so she could take a step back. And I thought I saw something in Georgia, something I recognized. So when Georgia extended her stay, asking around about jobs, I jumped.

A year later, for all our differences, I was glad to have her. The guests connected with her, and she was easy to work with, easy to live with. She might not have needed the money (a warning from Celeste, after she saw the car she’d returned with), but she did need something—and whatever it was, it kept her here, kept her loyal.

I lifted the phone from the cradle, pressed the power button, and listened to the soft familiar hum of the dial tone. See? Everything’s okay. Some line must have come down in town, and now it was back; and Trey West would spend a night in the place his brother was last seen, and come to terms with something, then head out in the morning; the storm would pass and tomorrow the mountain sun would creep across the sky, drying the earth in steady patches.

By tomorrow evening, all evidence of this would have disappeared, as so often happened here.

I left the phone on top of the desk, angled toward the lobby, and placed the sign beside it, designating my apartment number as the line to call for assistance. I checked the office locks one last time and peered around the common area, making sure everything was as it should be. Last, I hit the light switch hidden behind the registration area that turned off the upper lights, leaving only the soft glow of the gas lanterns in my wake.

Then I walked down the main hall, passing the series of framed black-and-white photographs showing the construction of the inn. First, Celeste and her late husband, Vincent, both with windswept hair: Vincent, with a strong jaw and chiseled face, smile turned toward her, sleeves of a button-down rolled up, like he’d just come from the office; Celeste with her head tipped back, wide smile, like she’d been starting to laugh. She must’ve been close to my age then. Both of them were standing beside the lumber that would one day become the dome of the lobby. The next pictures captured the various stages of the build, the main structure in skeleton form, all wood beams and open air, so that now, standing in this hall, I could almost smell the raw lumber under the drywall and paint.

Near the end of the hall, I pressed my thumb to a nail hole that still needed repair, visible under a patch of paint that hadn’t been spackled first. No one here visiting would notice, probably. But it was our job to find the imperfections and correct them, even in the rustic allure. The only flaws here were deliberate and curated. But there was never any time for a complete job until the off-season. Anytime I got started with a paint touch-up, I only noticed the borders where the color didn’t blend right, older sections that had faded or dulled from sunlight and time. The full repaint would have to wait for the string of winter days in January when we shut the inn for all the work we’d been putting off throughout the year.

I used my badge to unlock the nondescript door just before the back exit. Inside, the steps led down to the lower level, for employees, where we stopped pretending. Here, the doors had regular keys, regular locks—nothing that could be overridden with an electronic card. Along the hallway, scuff marks marred the walls, from furniture and supply deliveries, year after year.

Down the hall, I could hear music coming from Georgia’s apartment. She kept the radio on whenever she was in, even when she was sleeping, as if to confirm that she was there. As if she had listened to Cory’s talk one too many times, had started to believe the rumors herself—that an unknown danger could approach from the woods at any time.

My apartment was just past Georgia’s. I let myself in and locked up behind me. The noise from her room fell to silence. The walls on the lower level were built thick, for structure and support, and noise didn’t carry like it did out in the halls. Georgia and I each had a one-bedroom unit with a kitchenette and bathroom off a small all-purpose living space—the mirror image of each other’s.

Without turning on the light, I dropped my keys on the laminate counter, stepped out of my damp shoes, peeled off my socks. I removed the pins from my bun as I crossed the room, worked my fingers through the deep brown layers, feeling them slowly unspool.

The inn was built into a slope, so that our rooms on the lower level actually looked out onto the mountain, too, tucked into the side of the incline. Personally, I believed these were the best views, because you could see near and far equally—the blades of grass just on the other side of the glass, an animal tracking by, leaves falling over the sill; and the mountains in the distance, seeming even more massive, given the lower perspective.

My living room curtains remained closed, since guests sometimes explored the grounds directly outside. But my bedroom had a view that remained unobstructed and uncovered at all times. Upper windows that slanted outward, halfway to being skylights, giving way to a rocky overlook below, difficult to reach from the outside.

When I’d first arrived, I used to jolt alert in the night, listening for whatever had startled me, before realizing it must’ve been the silence itself. And I’d wake each morning disoriented by the perspective, taking a moment to recenter myself, remember where I was.