The Last to Vanish(8)

People seemed to think this place would settle into me immediately, that it was in my bones, somehow, as Celeste’s niece, even if we weren’t related by blood. But it had happened gradually, in a way that caught me by surprise. Ten years later, and it held the familiar comfort of home: It was private and perfect and mine.

I felt my way in the dark, pulling my pajamas from the drawer underneath my bed, brushing my teeth by the glow of the bathroom night-light, slipping into the familiar sheets.

Then it was just me, and the rain. I felt my pulse, two fingers at the base of my neck. Counted my breaths, in and out, in and out. Stared up, out the bedroom windows, at the water streaking across the glass, and the night sky beyond. The view familiar, if ever-changing.

There was a subtle shift in the pattern of the raindrops on my windows. Something in the chaos that told me the storm was over, though it still sounded like it was raining—the kind of thing you only came to recognize with time. The drops continued to fall from the trees around us, and would continue to do so, hours later, in a delayed echo, like the light of a dying star.

Looking up at night here, the universe felt so alive—not that you were really looking into the past, at things that may not exist anymore. At times, everything about this place felt like we were circling things that had already happened. The photos in the hall; the people who had gone missing; the stories Cory told, down at the tavern. Like you were always running behind—whether by hours or light-years. By the time you realized what you were seeing here, it was too late. It was already gone.





CHAPTER 3


THERE WAS NO NEED for an alarm clock in the summer months—the sun rose before any work needed to be done, and I wasn’t due in an official capacity until the afternoon.

The windows above my bed were slightly fogged, and I could feel the morning chill as my feet planted onto the floor beside my bed. Outside the window, a scattering of pebbles cascaded down the rocky outcropping—a squirrel or two, making their way down from the roof, I was guessing. They were nearly impossible to deter, leaping from tree to roof, gnawing their way into the eaves with a relentless, single-minded focus. No matter how frequently we patched over the problem, no matter how much we tried to stop them, we’d hear the telltale scratching within weeks again.

My apartment phone hadn’t rung through the night, so I assumed everyone had gotten through the storm okay. No power outages, or leaks, or requests for the number of a late-night delivery service so guests wouldn’t have to venture out into the weather.

A good night. A quiet night.

I caught sight of myself in the bedroom mirror, dark hair down past my shoulders and a tattoo on my collarbone that I very much regretted from when I was a teenager, three tiny birds taking flight. I’d imagined it as my future, then—my mom used to joke that I always had one foot out the door, ready to take off.

Even though I wasn’t on shift yet, I got myself ready for the day, gathered my hair into a low bun and dressed in my uniform—black pants and navy polo, bare-branched tree logo on the upper left corner. As the manager of the inn, there was a constantly growing list of things to keep on top of, from coordinating repairs to checking the grounds, and it was less concerning for guests to see someone in uniform slipping in and out of previously unnoticed doorways. The only difference in my work attire right now was my choice of footwear—sneakers, for walking the grounds or pacing the halls while keeping a low profile.

Georgia’s room was quiet. She was either on her morning run or already up in the lobby, opening for the day, preparing the continental breakfast that guests would take from the lobby to the seats by the windows scattered throughout the inn, or, more likely, to the bistro tables on the deck out back, where you could have your coffee while watching the sky turn colors over the mountain ridge.

I took the private exit at the end of the employee hall, barely visible from the back of the building, painted to blend in. It was only accessible with an employee badge, just like from the upstairs hallway, so that maintenance and Celeste could access the storage closets, where we kept an assortment of supplies, outdoor furniture, old records, and fresh linens. But it was also the entrance most often used by me and Georgia—a private door to our home.

Now, as I emerged on the back corner of our property, under the deck that extended off the main level, I could already hear chairs shifting above. Beyond the stairs to the deck was a line of trees that concealed a garage with a carriage home over top, where Celeste lived.

In the distance, the fog was lifting off the mountain, like smoke. Wisps of heavy gray still clung to the trees in sections, muting everything. It was my favorite kind of morning, haunting and beautiful.

I took a picture to send to Sloane later in the week, when I knew she’d be back in cell phone range. When Sloane took a promotion to start up her company’s new rafting center in Virginia, she pulled me in tight and whispered, “Don’t disappear on me.” The day after she’d left, I’d sent her a photo from the town green at three p.m.—what Sloane called ice cream hour, for the prevalence of tourists who took their cones to the lawn at the same time, as if coordinated. I’d bought a cone from the corner shop just for the shot, captioned the photo: Proof of Life. I’d received a photo in response that evening: Sloane, looking tired, long wavy hair, unimpressed expression as she stood in front of a room full of moving boxes, bottle of beer raised.