Amber Cowie's Last One Alive is a psychological thriller about myth and murder — read an excerpt now

Last One Alive is a psychological thriller from Canadian author Amber Cowie.

Last One Alive is a novel about a bestselling author named Penelope Berkowitz who is desperate for inspiration for a second book. With the help of a new boyfriend, she embarks on a research trip with a team of professionals, ex-lovers, and estranged family members to investigate the myth of a witch on Stone Point, a remote coastal outcropping in the Pacific Northwest.

But when a violent storm rages outside where they are staying, the group is stranded — and a murderer lurks among them.

Cowie is a writer and novelist based in British Columbia. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Salon, The Globe and Mail and CrimeReads. Her 2018 debut novel, Rapid Falls, was a Whistler Book Awards nominee.

Last One Alive is Cowie's fourth book.

"This book is my take on the locked room mystery—  one of my most beloved tropes. I wanted to explore the tension of the classic elegant mysteries of Agatha Christie and the chilling modern versions from Shari LaPena, Ruth Ware and Lucy Foley in a stormy West Coast setting," Cowie said to CBC Books.  

"From the moment I wrote the first word, I've thought of Last One Alive as a cross between And Then There Were None and The Blair Witch Project. For me, the most tantalizing element of locked room mysteries is that once the story begins, there's no way out but through for both the characters and the readers."

Last One Alive will be available on May 3, 2022.

You can read an excerpt from Last One Alive below.

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?

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.

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.

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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. 

A flare of unexpected anger sharpened Penelope's thoughts. It was ridiculous that Marianne had not lived longer than 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 apartment. The small book was the reason she had met Marianne. It had been the subject of so many of their conversations. Including their last.

Excerpted from Last One Alive by Amber Cowie. Copyright © 2022. Published by Simon & Schuster. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.