The Last to Vanish(71)

Who was there, on the other side of the disposable camera? Who was Neil reaching for? Who was Brian joking with? There was no one in the background, nothing behind them but the rise of the mountain, where they’d soon disappear.

I tried to imagine someone else, just out of frame. But there was nothing to indicate it. Only the person taking the shot.

I could almost feel them, gesturing for everyone to get closer, counting down, snapping the button a second too soon, before everyone was ready.

There were no storefront windows that offered a reflection. There were only Neil’s sunglasses, but everything was too small, and I had no idea where any original film would be. I did the only thing I could, and took a picture of Neil, close-up, with my own phone—hoping I could see things better on the screen, by changing the lighting or enlarging the frame.

I hopped off the stool, pulled up the photo, zoomed in on Neil’s face. God, he was so young. Younger than me, right now.

The corner of his glasses reflected the setting sun, and my stomach sank because I knew it was too late. Too late for any of them to be heading out, just as they had been warned. Too late for any of them at all. I knew they were not alive. That theory didn’t hold. Despite the rumors of a cult, or of the people who didn’t want to be found, they were just four twentysomething young men, who took a quick trip, left their lives behind. They were not planning some grand escape. They’d left too much behind. Too much unresolved. They were dead. I knew this now.

I zoomed in closer, on the other lens, without the glare. There was nothing but a small blur of white at the bottom of the lens. Like webbing. No, not webbing. As I focused, it looked more like a crack, spreading.

I brought the phone closer to my face. So close, I felt I could reach out and touch his face. The blue of the lens, the white of the crack—

A noise escaped my throat, alone, in this empty room. A logo. That’s what it was. White on navy blue. And I knew exactly what it was: a tree, bare branches stretching into the sky. Like they were reaching for something.

It was the logo for the Passage Inn.

My home, the place where I’d lived, for ten years. Someone wearing that shirt, or holding an umbrella, or in possession of something with that logo was on the other side of the camera. Someone who might’ve known what happened to them. Who might’ve been the fifth member—

The sound of a key sliding into a lock jarred me. I stood straight, shoulders tense, phone still in my hand—only to see Rochelle pushing open the main entrance to the tavern, in dark jeans and a green tank top.

She paused just inside the door, rocked back slightly on her gold sandals. “Well, hello there,” she said.

“I was just…” I said, my voice wavering. But I couldn’t come up with a good excuse, not with that image in my mind. I was doing what an outsider would do, sneaking around, trying to figure out something left unsolved for so long, as if I could be the one to uncover the truth.

“Yes,” she said, faintly amused, “I can see that. So can everyone else. We just got a call at the sheriff’s office about someone inside the Last Stop, snooping around.” She gestured to the glass windows behind her.

“So you came to check it out?” I asked.

“Sure, no point wasting resources. Everyone’s busy.”

As if she were a member of the department herself. As if she decided what calls to pass along and what to check out on her own. “You have a key here?” I asked.

She started walking across the room. “We have a spare key to practically everywhere. The store owners all prefer it that way, so we can check on any issues without waiting for them to arrive.” Of course they did. They all trusted one another here. But only one another. “Though I see you found a way in, too.”

I held up the key from the back lockbox, placed it on the counter like an offering. Hoping she let me go, kept this to herself. Not a big deal, nothing to see here.

But she came closer, not letting me off so easily.

Maybe this was an opportunity. Rochelle might be the one person who would know these things. Who handled every call, set up every system. She had access everywhere, heard everything, and in the past, had shared her own theory so readily. They fell, she’d said. That’s what she truly believed: They had fallen into the ravine, and animals had taken care of the rest.

But there was a note about the Fraternity Five, and I could see the logo for the Passage Inn reflected in Neil’s glasses. And I wondered if she was missing something, too.

“Rochelle,” I began, because she’d already caught me, so what was the point in hiding it anymore? Why not get what I came for? “Do you know, when they interviewed everyone during the investigation…” I didn’t even have to say which one. She could tell, from where I was standing, what I was doing. “Did they ever have a suspect?”

She tilted her head, came even closer. “Oh no, not you, too,” she said. “It’s long gone, Abby. It’s over.”

But it wasn’t over. It existed beside us, in everything we did. In every visitor’s question, in that picture over the bar. It was the thing that mattered most of all. I took a deep breath, pressing on, “Did they interview—”

She put her hand up, bangles sliding down her arm, then raised a single finger. She joined me behind the bar, leaned back to assess the inventory. Then she pulled a half-empty bottle of tequila from the shelf just to the side of the framed picture. She grabbed two shot glasses with her other hand, placed everything between us on the bar top.