The Last to Vanish(83)

The photo started to load below, in painstaking fragments. And there she was again, Alice Kelly, at the center of the frame, a close-up of the front row standing behind the sign. Quinn must’ve taken a closer snapshot of the picture. Lacy with a hand on Alice’s shoulder, turned her way, Caroline smiling at the camera. They were all so young. I pictured them hiking together, packs that seemed to weigh as much as they did, and what Alice would’ve looked like, ten years later. Where all of their lives would have gone from here. Where the others’ had. If they thought of her. If they sometimes thought they caught sight of her in the aisle of a store, or while picking up their kids from school. If they were all still haunted by it.

A new message chimed. Quinn was online right now.

James was her ex-boyfriend. He didn’t hike as part of that group. I’m surprised he went at all. He really only joined the Outdoors Club for the pictures.

I read it again twice before responding: He was a photographer? There was something here. Something between Alice and Farrah.

A note that she was typing. And then: Yes, that’s how they met. A photography class outside of school taught by some nature photographer. Alice joined for the nature part. He was there for the photography.

Footsteps approached from slowly down the hall, and then Harris was standing in the door frame, watching me type out a response to Quinn: Was he ever questioned?

“Who are you talking to this late at night?” he said with a smirk.

“Alice Kelly’s sister, actually,” I said, raising my eyes to him. “I found her on Instagram.”

“Huh. You’re really worried about the sheriff?”

I made some noncommittal gesture. I wasn’t sure. Didn’t want to start rumors I couldn’t stop. “Any luck down there?”

He ran a single hand down his face. “Unfortunately, no. It’s a bigger issue,” he said. “I’m gonna check outside.”

“Okay,” I said, only half paying attention. Watching the screen of my phone again, waiting for her to respond.

Finally, it came through: No, not that I know of. Everyone on the hike was cleared. They were looking at people in town.

Except. Except, she’d never made it into town. Cory hadn’t seen her. No one had.

Is he in that Outdoors Club picture, too?

I squinted at the original shot, but everyone was too small to see clearly, since she’d taken a picture of a printed-out photo.

More typing:

Yeah, hold on. I’ll take a clearer shot. He’s the guy standing behind her.

I waited for the photo to load. Fragment by fragment came through, zooming in on one slightly grainy face: brown curly hair first, a sort of widow’s peak. I couldn’t see his eyes because they were turned down, toward Alice. And his face was smooth, free of a beard. But it was him. My god, this was Harris.

“What?” I spoked it out loud. This wasn’t James. This was Harris Donald. I went for our safe, where we kept our old invoices, and started piecing through them now, until I found a pink slip with his company’s heading: J. Harris Donald

I shook my head, turning to the photo again. It was ten years ago. A lot of young men looked like this.

Coincidence. My imagination running away with me.

Wouldn’t he have told me, if he’d known her? He’d said he wasn’t here for the disappearance. Because he was away at college. But surely he would’ve mentioned knowing her? That he had dated her, even?

I’d never seen Harris with a camera, never asked him about his interests, his hobbies. But I remembered the pictures I’d seen in his house. The photos on their living room wall, of the trail, the creek, the flowers—had they been taken by Harris? Had he also known Farrah? Had Farrah known him?

My ears were ringing, something sharp and tinny, and I checked my phone for the picture of the numbers Landon West had written in his journal. A local number, beside the name James. The woman who answered had said it was the wrong number when I called before. But I pulled up that number now and called again.

It kept ringing, but I didn’t hang up. Ring after ring, until eventually someone answered. A woman, sleepy, confused. “Hello?” she answered, and this time, with the context, I could place the voice.

It was Samantha.

“Samantha?” I said, holding the phone close to my face, keeping my voice low, urgent.

A rustling of sheets. “Who is this?” she asked.

“Abby, at the inn.”

“Abby, is everything okay?”

No, it was not. “I called before, asking for James. Is that your husband’s first name?” I asked, watching the front door of the lobby. He was out there. Right outside—

“Wait. What? Why would you… It’s the family name. James was his grandfather, and he’s been dead a long time. Anyone calling for a James is just a sign for a spam call—”

“But is it his name,” I repeated, my grip tightening on the phone. J. Harris.

“Yes, but he doesn’t go by that—”

The door to the inn swung open, and I heard Harris call my name.

I hung up the phone, hands shaking.

“Yes?” I called back. Trying to defuse the moment. Put a stop to this.

“I’ve gotta show you something,” he said, still standing at the entrance.

“Can we do this in the morning?” I asked, thinking, Please, walk away. Walk away.