The Vanishing at Lake Morrow

Asha began with the room. Julian Cross's suite was on the second floor, east wing, overlooking the lake. The door had been forced by lodge staff after he failed to appear for breakfast. The deadbolt showed no signs of tampering. The windows were sealed — not just locked, but painted shut years ago, the paint unbroken. Inside: a bed that had been slept in, a suitcase half-unpacked, a phone with seventeen unread messages from someone named "R" — all variations of "call me back" with increasing urgency. His wallet was on the dresser. His shoes were by the door. His coat hung in the closet. Everything suggested a man who had gone to sleep and simply ceased to exist between midnight and morning. Asha photographed everything, then sat on the edge of the bed and thought. Locked room. No exit. No body. The simplest explanation was that someone had a key — but the lodge manager swore there were only two: one given to Cross, found on the nightstand, and one master kept in a safe behind the front desk. The safe's log showed it had not been opened since Thursday. She went downstairs and found Diane Voss exactly where she had left her — sitting by the fireplace with a cup of tea, watching the other guests with the detached interest of a scientist observing an experiment. "I need the guest list," Asha said. "Full names, occupations, and how each person knows your company." Voss reached into her bag and produced a printed sheet. She had it ready. "I anticipated the request." Asha took it. Twelve names. Twelve occupations. And in the margin, handwritten in red ink, a thirteenth name — crossed out. "Who is this?" Asha asked. Voss's smile returned. "The person who was supposed to be in that room instead of Julian Cross."