The Last to Vanish(72)

It wasn’t even noon, but Rochelle filled both glasses. “One shot, one question,” she said with a sly grin. “Keeps you honest. Keeps you from getting greedy.”

She placed her elbows on the counter, leaning forward, chin in hands, like she was waiting to see what I would do.

I grabbed the closest glass, could smell the alcohol, feel the burn even before I tasted it. I hated tequila, and I got the feeling she knew this, remembered it from years earlier. I started with a sip, then tipped it all the way back, my throat burning, my stomach churning. I coughed into my closed fist, then set the glass back on the counter.

I pictured the reflection in Neil’s glasses; the shadow of a fifth man behind the camera. “Was Vincent ever questioned about the Fraternity Four?” I asked, even though he’d been long dead before Farrah disappeared. And then I coughed again. “Were any of the rumors about him?” This person whose absence I had stepped into so firmly. This person I felt I knew so well, just by existing in the place he’d once occupied. But I had only known him through Celeste’s old stories. Through the photos that lined the walls of the inn. She’d told me that he’d changed after the disappearances, that he didn’t like to leave the inn.

Rochelle laughed. “What do you think happened here twenty-five years ago? Every person between the ages of fifteen and seventy was questioned and accounted for. Their alibis taken apart backward and forward. I’ve had access to the files since I was seventeen. I could practically recite them for you.” She shook her head. “This town was traumatized. Is it any surprise they don’t want to talk about it? If you’d grown up here, you’d know that.”

I ignored her dig. “And Vincent’s alibi was solid?”

She laughed again, gathered her hair over one shoulder. “Vincent’s was the best. Out of town, confirmed with work and hotel.” She recited it like something she’d read many times. “Apparently, back when the inn had first opened, he still had to split his time between the inn and the firm he used to work for. So, he wasn’t even here. He didn’t come back until the next day. Which you should know.”

“I was three,” I said. A young child, just like she had been, like Cory, like Jack—none of us with any recollection of that time in our lives. Just the stories we were told.

She waved her hand, standing straight. “And anyway, that guy? No matter how much Celeste says he loved the nature here, I rarely saw him outside when I was growing up. He was not a hiker, didn’t seem outdoorsy at all. What would he be doing out there? He was an architect. It was amazing Celeste got him to move out here, honestly.”

I didn’t understand. Vincent wasn’t here, but I knew what I saw—?“Did anyone else work at the inn then?”

She waited, not answering, and then I understood. I pulled the second shot glass across the bar top, tipped my head back, poured it down. My entire body was on fire, my nerves fraying, as I awaited her answer. Because I felt suddenly so close, too close.

“No,” she said. “At least, I don’t think so? The inn had opened a couple years earlier, but it was still pretty new, just getting off the ground… They didn’t have a lot of guests. I don’t think they could’ve afforded to hire anyone else. They did it all themselves, mostly.”

Mostly. I could cling to the mostly. I had to. I didn’t like how the scene was shifting, the ghost I could suddenly picture on the other side of that camera. Just because Rochelle had access to the files didn’t mean everything was in there. She was the same age as I was, relying on other people’s stories, on what was written down or recorded. So much here happened quietly, behind the scenes, passed in whispers and rumors.

“Everyone was interviewed?” I pressed. “Even the sheriff?” He’d been a young deputy then; his father had been the sheriff instead.

Her face hardened, eyes darkened. But she didn’t pick up the bottle of tequila, didn’t make me take another shot, and I understood—this one, she would not answer. I had crossed some line. Or maybe she didn’t know. His father had been the sheriff then, after all. What were the chances there was anything on record that would have the capacity to hurt him?

She lowered her voice. “You’ve got almost everybody fooled here, Abby. Maybe having Celeste vouch for you is enough for the sheriff. Maybe it’s enough for Cory.” She leaned forward. “But you should be more careful, Abby Lovett. People are going to start noticing what you’re really like.”

She picked up the bottle, poured one more shot, and picked it up. But instead of holding it my way, she smiled tightly. “My turn,” she said. Then she gulped it down in one fast swallow, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

I gestured to the photo over the bar. “I came in to see—”

“No,” she said, all drawn out. “Not here.” She slapped the surface of the bar, grounding us physically. “I mean, here. In Cutter’s Pass.”

I shook my head, unsure how to answer. Unsure what she wanted to hear.

She sucked air through her teeth, a faint whistle. “The thing is, I checked you out, when you arrived.” I must’ve made a face, because she rolled her eyes. “Don’t take it personal, I do it to everyone, there’s not too much going on, a lot of days. And you can’t be too careful here.” I knew she’d done this for Cory, looking into Georgia’s past. It had not occurred to me she did this to others, too. “And what can I say, very on the up and up. One unpaid parking ticket, not that I think anyone will come after you, especially since you were seventeen.” A head tilt. “I am sorry about your mom.”