Last One Alive Read online

  Praise for Last One Alive

  “A riveting, irresistible locked-room mystery reminiscent of Agatha Christie, Last One Alive is endlessly entertaining and fiendishly clever. So jam-packed with tension and suffused with dread, you won’t be able to put it down!”

  CHRISTINA McDONALD, USA Today bestselling author of The Night Olivia Fell

  “A haunting, claustrophobic, unpredictable thriller for fans of Agatha Christie, Last One Alive showcases Amber Cowie’s extraordinary talent. As a violent storm rages outside a remote lodge, a group of strangers are stranded in a terrifying cat-and-mouse hunt for the murderer among them. Cowie writes with such skillful description that I could feel the cold and rain seep into my bones, and my pulse spike as the exhilarating story reached a breakneck pace. A bewitching read jam-packed with fascinating characters, this book is an absolute standout.”

  SAMANTHA M. BAILEY, USA Today and #1 nationally bestselling author of Woman on the Edge

  “An abandoned lodge. A group of suspect people. An old mystery to solve. And then the guests begin disappearing one by one. Can they figure out what is going on before it’s too late? Fans of Agatha Christie and Ruth Ware will want to pick this book up immediately!”

  CATHERINE McKENZIE, bestselling author of Six Weeks to Live and I’ll Never Tell

  “Cowie has done Agatha Christie proud in this stay-up-all-night, keep-all-the-lights-on mystery. With a setting that’s remote, creepy, and possibly cursed—and a story both haunting and harrowing—Last One Alive will entertain you from the first disappearance to the final dead body.”

  MEGAN COLLINS, author of The Family Plot

  Praise for Loss Lake

  “Wonderfully tense and gorgeously disturbing, Loss Lake is richly atmospheric, centering around a much-fabled monster-filled lake and a darkly twisted small town hiding big secrets.”

  CHRISTINA McDONALD, USA Today bestselling author of Do No Harm, Behind Every Lie, and The Night Olivia Fell

  Praise for Raven Lane

  “Smooth prose and relatable characters keep the pages turning. Cowie delivers surprises all the way to the end.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Cowie delivers a deliciously discomfiting and compelling domestic suspense… revealing a salaciously toxic—and deadly—tangle of relationships.”

  LORETH ANNE WHITE, bestselling author of In the Dark

  Praise for Rapid Falls

  “Hypnotic and darkly twisted, Rapid Falls is the true definition of a page-turner. It’s so compelling that you will not want to put it down. Cowie’s smart storytelling and mesmerizing prose paints a stunning debut, making it one of my favorite psychological thrillers of the year.”

  KERRY LONSDALE, Wall Street Journal bestselling author

  “In Rapid Falls, everyone is the good guy in their own story. Like a spider spinning a web, Ms. Cowie skillfully takes this notion and elevates it to a fantastically dark and dizzying place. Say goodbye to any preconceived ideas about sisterhood, the power of grudges, or happily ever after, because this book will sweep them away and leave you gasping for more.”

  ELIZA MAXWELL, bestselling author of The Unremembered Girl

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  To Eve and Thompson: You are everything to me and that will always be more than enough

  BEFORE

  Penelope stopped outside the door to Marianne’s apartment. She pinched the key so tightly that it bit into the pad of her thumb. Now that she was here, she couldn’t bear the idea of sliding it into the lock and seeing what was inside. The scene that had been repeating in her head since she heard the news began again as her hand hovered at waist-height. This fixation on a single moment was senseless, yet she couldn’t shake the idea that understanding the precise mechanics of her closest friend’s last breath would allow her to accept the unbearable truth. Marianne was dead.

  In her mind, Penelope heard the thump of her friend’s body hitting the floor, heavy and thick as the final beat of a heart. According to several witnesses who had seen Marianne drop dead at the front of her classroom, it had happened fast. The thirty-two-year-old had collapsed while delivering a lecture to her college history class. A brain aneurysm, according to the lawyer. One of the students had described it as surreal. Penelope agreed. Since she’d heard of Marianne’s death, the whole world had seemed like a terrible simulation. If someone like her could die in a way like that, how could Penelope trust anything ever again?

  When the playback loop ended, Penelope forced the tumblers apart with the key and pushed the door open. She didn’t enter immediately. It still felt as though she should wait for an invitation. She counted to four as she breathed in deeply. When no call of welcome came, she stepped over the threshold.

  Penelope’s chest grew tight at the sight of the sun-filled one-bedroom apartment where she had spent so many afternoons and evenings. She smelled lemons and a faint hint of strong coffee as she looked around at her friend’s belongings: paintings, a vase, throw pillows, books. Before Marianne’s death, the objects had seemed like the legend of her life—signifiers and set pieces for all the things her friend hadn’t had time to tell her in the two years they’d known each other. Now all those stories would remain untold.

  A flare of unexpected anger sharpened Penelope’s thoughts. It was ridiculous that Marianne had not lived longer than this. It was ludicrous that two years after the end of the pandemic, Penelope’s best friend had died from a hidden flaw in her own body. It was horrifying and insane that Penelope was the one who had to clean out her apartment. She had treated it as a joke when Marianne had asked her to become the executor of her estate. What woman in her early thirties needed a will? But that was Marianne. Morbidly practical—the polar opposite of Penelope, with her unflagging optimism and slightly disheveled life.

  Marianne planned her vacations to the last detail months, sometimes even years, in advance, while Penelope had once gone camping for a weekend with nothing more than a pack of veggie dogs and a sleeping bag. Marianne bought her groceries using a regimented weekly meal plan. Penelope ate peanut butter crackers for dinner most nights of the week. Marianne filed an online itinerary whenever she went for a hike. Penelope was proud when she remembered to bring a rain jacket to work on overcast days. Her inability to organize herself had been a sore point all her life, but Marianne had loved her spontaneity. When they were together, Penelope had finally felt like she was good enough. She had even become confident enough to tease Marianne about not worrying until things actually happened. Now it turned out her friend had been right all along. Penelope couldn’t help but think that if only she were more like Marianne, she might have been prepared for this.

  An hour before, in a wood-paneled office downtown, Marianne’s estate lawyer had instructed Penelope to empty her friend’s home as soon as possible. It would need to be rented again to avoid any extra expense to the estate. The fridge, the lawyer had said grimly. People forget about the fridge. Penelope had nodded as she closed her hand over the jagged teeth of the key the lawyer placed on the desk. Her collar had become unpleasantly damp after the tears slid down her cheeks.

  Now, her throat thickened again when she spotted the red notebook sitting politely closed on the otherwise empty desk by the floor-to-ceiling window at the far end of the apartment. Though its dull leather surface was deceptively innocuous, Penelope knew that it was the most valuable thing in the entire apa
rtment. The small book was the reason she had met Marianne. It had been the subject of so many of their conversations. Including their last.

  * * *

  Penelope had seen Marianne’s handwritten poster on the bulletin board of her usual coffee shop. The neatly lettered sign had stood out among the scrawls from dog-walkers, babysitters, and reiki healers advertising their services.

  SEEKING WRITING PARTNER WHO IS NOT A JERK, it read. Penelope laughed, and then texted the listed number to set up a time to meet. Being an author was all she’d ever wanted to be. She longed to write the story she’d been telling everyone was coming since she’d graduated high school more than a decade before, but she found it difficult to sit down and get words on a page. A writing partner was exactly what she needed.

  She and Marianne had hit it off immediately. After their first meeting, they had planned a standing lunch date every two weeks at the coffee shop for writing and critique sessions. Their relationship had quickly expanded to after-work cocktails, weekend hikes, and home-cooked meals at Marianne’s apartment. They had grown close, sharing details of their lives and their interests, though Marianne offered little more than broad strokes about her past. Penelope learned quickly not to ask any probing questions. She only knew that Marianne had a brother whom she rarely saw, her father had died when she was in her early twenties, and she was estranged from her mother.

  Penelope had loved the way her coffee dates with Marianne had stolen her away from the sweaty humidity that dripped from the windows of the community center where she managed the recreation programs. (Wednesdays were aerobics.) Six days before the call from the lawyer, Marianne had sat down across from her in their usual spot. The milky, cinnamon scent from her chai wafted across the table. Penelope had spoken right away.

  “Have you sent it yet?”

  Her eagerness sounded almost greedy, but she didn’t care. Marianne was so close to achieving the dream they both shared. An editor had asked to read the completed manuscript of Marianne’s novel after seeing the first chapter.

  “God, no. I haven’t even started typing the rest of it,” Marianne said with a groan. She wrote in longhand and needed to transcribe everything before sending.

  Penelope bit her lip.

  “So do it already. The second chapter is incredible,” Penelope said.

  So is the rest of it, she wanted to add, but her jealousy choked away the praise. She tamped it down by thinking about the role she had played in crafting Marianne’s beautiful novel. For two years she had read and commented on the pages that appeared magically each session like an unexpected snowfall on a winter morning. The next time they met, Penelope’s suggestions would be incorporated with the invisible perfection of new flakes landing on the pile. Penelope had been grateful to develop her editing talents, as she was beginning to doubt she had much to offer as a writer.

  While Marianne danced through her story, Penelope’s ideas for her own remained stiff and unmoving. Though her friend arrived regularly with fresh pages, new ideas, and unexpected characters, Penelope was stuck rewriting her first ten chapters over and over, trying to coax a book into existence. The sample of work she had sent Marianne after spotting her sign was the same thing she was working on now. But more than once, Marianne had told her that she could never have finished the novel without her, and Penelope took pride in that. She knew the work so well it almost felt like her own. Penelope owed it to Marianne—to both of them, really—to compel her to publish it.

  “I’m having second thoughts, Penny. It’s just so… dark,” Marianne said.

  Despite her friend’s concerns, Penelope warmed at her words. The nickname that only Marianne used for her always felt like an adult version of a secret handshake.

  “No one has to know it’s you. That’s what pseudonyms are for,” Penelope said. “You submitted the chapter using a blind email account, right?”

  She knew Marianne didn’t want her administration to discover that their untenured junior professor of comparative history was trying to sell a horror novel on the side. She had created an anonymous email account to ensure the submission wouldn’t be traced back to her, but despite these measures, her hesitation had only increased since she’d submitted the chapter. Penelope sensed that the risk to Marianne’s academic career wasn’t the real issue. There was something within the manuscript that scared Marianne. Something that she wasn’t willing to talk about.

  “What if someone does find out? I could lose my job.”

  Penelope smiled reassuringly, though her molars gritted against each other. She could only dream of being poised to prove her family wrong and escape her dull, low-paying job as a recreation manager, but even the possibility of never coming home with hands smelling of old basketballs again hadn’t been enough to put words on the page. She looked at Marianne closely as she took a sip of coffee, trying to figure out how to persuade her.

  “You’ll be selling the movie rights soon, and neither of us will ever have to work again,” she said.

  Marianne chuckled, which Penelope took as a good sign. But then her friend hedged again.

  “Maybe it’s not the right time to put something so bleak out into the world.”

  “That’s why it works. Art reflects life, and the world’s brutal at the moment. It doesn’t matter that it’s dark. What matters is that it’s great.”

  Marianne’s eyes softened at the praise.

  “Thank you. I guess I just worry about creating something that’s so creepy. I keep thinking of that phrase, ‘you reap what you sow.’ Or as my mother used to say: ‘cruelty should be reserved for the cruel.’ ”

  Penelope eyed her carefully. Whenever Marianne spoke of her mother, her voice became sharp enough to cut paper. Not that it happened often. She preferred not to think about the past, she told Penelope. Penelope wondered if Marianne was finally going to reveal the truth about her family. Instead, her lips—painted a flattering shade of dark rose—turned up in a small smile.

  “But this morning is for writing, not relatives,” said Marianne. “How is your work going?”

  “Don’t worry about what I’m doing,” Penelope said, refusing to let Marianne change the subject. “I’m here to light a fire under you. Whatever happened in your life, it gave you the seeds of something beautiful and haunting. It’s in the work, Marianne.”

  Her friend’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “That’s true. And at least it has a happy ending.”

  Penelope paused before answering. “But everyone dies.”

  Marianne raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

  “Exactly.”

  They both laughed. Penelope couldn’t stop herself from reaching across the table to lay her hand on top of Marianne’s. Her ragged nails looked awful in comparison to Marianne’s flawless manicure. Marianne looked down and, for a stomach-churning second, Penelope was terrified that she’d made her feel uncomfortable with the physical contact. But instead of drawing away, Marianne flipped her palm up to give Penelope’s hand a squeeze that she felt throughout her entire body. It had been so long since anyone had touched her. The cuff of Marianne’s sleeve fell back to reveal the rippled flesh on her wrist. Penelope kept her eyes on Marianne’s face rather than her scarred arm, as its origin was another story Marianne didn’t want to tell.

  “I’m so grateful that you believe in me,” Marianne said.

  Penelope tried to speak but was taken aback by the catch in her throat. Marianne meant so much to her. She gathered herself, then responded.

  “Of course I do, but it’s not just about me. The editor is going to love it. The world is going to love it. The entire book is objectively good. Really good. Trust yourself. You need to let someone else see it. Someone who can actually do something about it.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll do it!” Marianne said with a grin that shifted almost immediately to a mock frown. “Even if it does take me months to type it all out. In the meantime, however, I have to teach a class.”

  They
said goodbye. Penelope left the coffee shop feeling buoyant, as if something wonderful was about to happen. Marianne’s novel was done. It was perfect. It was ready.

  * * *

  But Marianne hadn’t had a chance to follow through with the editor. Less than a week after their conversation, Marianne was dead and Penelope was standing in her apartment, alone, trying to figure out how she was going to make it through the funeral the next day.

  The notebook that contained the final draft of Marianne’s work sat on the glass surface of her desk. Penelope approached it gingerly. Her hand prickled as she reached out, like it was a sleeping dog about to snap. When she picked it up, it opened easily to a page toward the back that contained a meticulous outline. At first, Penelope thought it was the framework for a new story Marianne was writing, before she examined it more closely. It was a plan for a research trip. Her eye was drawn to the bottom of the page where a dark mark had bled through from the back side, partially obscuring Marianne’s elegant handwriting. Penelope flipped the page to read two words that had been inked over repeatedly.

  CALL PHILIP.

  Ten numbers were scratched under the message. Unlike Marianne’s usual precise hand, the lines wobbled with haste—or was it emotion? Penelope reached into her pocket for her phone. Her shoulders tightened as she imagined Marianne’s abandoned belongings creeping up behind her. She dialed the number and was so startled when a subdued voice answered after the first ring that she didn’t respond immediately. She had been expecting voice mail. She didn’t know anyone who picked up their phone anymore.

  “Hello?” the man repeated.

  “Hello,” Penelope said. The back of her throat seemed to swell. “I’ve been asked—um, appointed, I guess is more like—”