The Last to Vanish by Megan Miranda

Author:Megan Miranda
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner / Marysue Rucci Books
Published: 2022-07-26T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

I’D FOUND LANDON WEST out in this hall, in a moment eerily similar to the one that had just happened, just outside the employee door. But the lobby of the inn had been mostly deserted then. I’d done a double take when I exited from the stairwell, seeing a man lingering so close, so quietly, to the employee quarters. Something made me pause, pulling the door shut behind me, waiting to feel the security of the latch.

Good morning, I’d said, and he’d looked at the polo I wore, the label on the upper corner, before pointing at the images on the wall. Is it true, that the owners built this place all on their own?

I smiled. Designed and planned from the ground up. Blood and sweat and a little luck. The same thing Celeste had once said to me. But then I looked over my shoulder, leaned closer, in mock conspiracy. I assure you there were more hands involved than just theirs. After all, I painted this hallway myself last year.

He stepped back as if to appraise my work. Very professional. You hung these, too?

I did.

I watched as his eyes shifted from frame to frame. It’s like seeing two versions of the same thing. The image of the structure, framed in wood. The blueprints hanging in the last photo. He pointed to the door I’d just come from. Do you give tours down there?

My smile faltered. No, it’s private residences.

Just like the carriage house out there?

I didn’t know why he was asking about Celeste’s home. Or mine. But it put me on alert. Made me remember where we were, made me think of Farrah, and the people who had come looking for her, asking in their roundabout ways.

Are you a guest here, sir?

Landon West, he said, hand extended, wide smile with a dimple. I’m staying in Cabin Four.

Oh, I haven’t seen you around. Though I recognized his name from the log. Figured he’d been using the cabin as a base for hiking. He hadn’t been in for happy hour, that I knew of.

I’m working on a book, he’d said, eyes drifting back to the framed series. What’s your name again?

I hadn’t yet told him. Abby.

Abby, he repeated. You’ve worked here awhile?

Ten years, I said.

Ten years, he repeated. There was something off about him, the way he circled around a question, repeated my responses. But I had to relieve Georgia from her shift, and I couldn’t think of a reason to ask him to go.

Later that night, after I had closed up the lobby for the evening and had just come downstairs, I heard someone trying the back door. Our private entrance. The one hidden under the deck. I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I unlocked the door myself and peered into the night, but whoever it was must’ve heard me coming and fled. I couldn’t say for sure it was him—guests sometimes tried other doors, exploring the grounds. Though I believed, in that moment, that it was.

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