The Last to Vanish(84)

“Can you come out here for just a second?”

Not Harris, who was steps away from me now. Who had access to the inn, who we invited inside, hired for work. Harris, who could’ve cut the lines or disconnected them, just as well as he could’ve repaired them, to have a reason to be up here, keeping an eye on things. The danger, a stain upon this place—something I had let happen, with my silence. And it was here; he was still here.

“Abby,” he called again, and I was afraid he would come inside. That I would be trapped in this room. That there was no way out.

“Be right there!” I called.

Who to call, how to get help, the fastest way here? I texted Rochelle. It was Harris. Please get the sheriff. He’s here.

And then I left my phone on the sill, to ensure that the message went through.

Chances were, no one was coming. Not in time.

I stood, my head swimming, strode past reception, with the walking sticks—useless. I passed the fireplace, with the piles of logs in perfect pyramids. And then I grabbed the iron fire poker, from where it was angled just so, and stepped out into the night.





CHAPTER 23


THERE WERE NO LIGHTS on the path that snaked to the side of the inn, toward the cabins. Everything was extinguished. And as I stepped out into the night, the lobby lights behind me also went out.

We were bathed in darkness.

“The lines are cut.” Harris’s voice came from the side of the inn, and I knew it had been him, since the start. Since he’d heard about Trey’s arrival in town, he’d always had a reason to be up here, keeping an eye on things, finding out what he knew. Discovering, instead, what I knew.

Shit. All I had was a fire poker and an expanse of time until the sheriff maybe, possibly, showed up.

I imagined Alice, arms gripping the straps of her bag, hearing a step behind her in the woods, recognizing him, her confused smile faltering. Looking around for help, for anyone—

Farrah turning around on the snowy trail—

Landon, opening the door to a knock in the middle of the night—

Run, I wanted to tell them. Run. Faster.

“Abby? You there?”

I thought of Celeste, and her warning—that we were alone up here, and I needed to look after myself first of all. My car was dead. The lines were down. How quickly would Harris hear me if I took off now—toward the town? How quickly until he caught me?

Goose bumps rose across my arms, the back of my neck. The night was too expansive, too unknown.

“Just grabbing a flashlight,” I called tightly before retreating inside. I turned the dead bolt behind me, backed away from the entrance. Behind the thick wooden doors, and the reinforced glass that could stop a bullet. This place that would keep me safe.

I gripped that fire poker and listened hard, waiting for the sound of his footsteps, the shadow of his body passing in front of the tempered glass—but there was nothing. I started thinking maybe I had been wrong about him, about everything—and then I heard them: footsteps, in the distance, a soft thud near the back of the inn.

I spun around. Stared into the darkness of the hall. He was coming up the wooden steps to the deck, with the back entrance to the inn, which would be unlocked—

I started sprinting, racing him for the door, but he was already there, the handle turning, the hinges creaking, and it was all I could do to pivot to the side and hold my employee badge to the red light of the battery-powered lock, slipping inside the dark stairwell, toward the basement.

His shadow passed the door just as I pulled it shut.

“Abby?” he called.

I held my breath, could hear the rapid beating of my own heart echoing in my head. I clutched the poker in one hand and backed down the steps quietly, surrounded by darkness. The dark stairwell, the dark hall.

I thought of the blueprints that had once hung on the wall, with all the entrances and exits labeled clearly, and I moved on instinct, hand tracing the concrete walls. I knew every inch of this place. This was my home. Five more steps to the bottom.

“Abby!” he repeated, louder this time, just on the other side of the door. I thought of the guests, the inn, all the things in my charge, that I was supposed to keep safe.

“I’m here,” I said behind the safety of a locked door and thick walls meant for structure and protection. I needed to keep him in one place, hope Rochelle got my message, got the sheriff—

But then I heard the familiar click of the lock disengaging, the door opening, and I saw the shadow of him for a brief second before the door fell shut again.

We stood, mere feet away, in total darkness.

Of course he’d had a way in here. Of course he could come and go as wanted, for who knew how long.

“I think someone’s been out there,” Harris said, voice low, as if he hadn’t followed me into the basement in the dark.

And I thought: You, you’ve been out there. The first day Trey arrived in town, Harris was working downtown where the news had begun to spread, and it was all my fault. He knew. Someone was looking. Families, digging long after everyone else. Driven by something deeper.

I remembered what Celeste had said, what my father had done when faced with his killer, to try to humanize himself. To humanize all of us. “Does your wife know you’re here, Harris? I just talked to her on the phone,” I said, taking another step down.

“You did what?” he asked. He didn’t move. I’d caught him off guard.