Last One To Die

by Cynthia Murphy

  To my girls – Ruth, Hurst, Sprout and Rothers. I love you. May our friendship last another twenty years at least. To Tash and Emma – thanks for letting me steal your names and I’m sorry for what I put your character through. To Dawn, for queuing up at midnight for this book (probably.) You’re all awesome.

  To my first and best writing buddy and coven-leader, Georgia Bowers. You are awesome. We have been through the mill together in a million different ways and it only took a pandemic for us both to realize our dreams of being published. I am so proud of and grateful for you and will forever be your number one fan. I can’t wait to see our books together on a shelf. It’s really happening. We are the weirdos, always.

  To my family, close and extended – I wouldn’t be the person I am without you all. From summers in Ireland to parties at our house, I have a lifetime worth of amazing memories, many of which have influenced this book. To our Godson, Dominic Kelly – you still owe me some research. To my grandparents, father-in-law Martin and uncle Ken – I wish you were all here to see this happen.

  To every single doctor, nurse, consultant, radiographer, oncologist, porter and anesthetist I have come into contact with since 2016 – thank you. I literally owe you my life and you’re just doing the job you do every day. I’m still here because of you. You are heroes.

  To Alice; Helen, Damien, Joe, Mike and Danny; Jackie, Dermott, Luke and Ronan; Tina, Willie, Ethan, Sabrina, Megan, Cora, Oran, Niamh and Sophie; thank you for being the best in-laws I could hope for. Whoever said you weren’t supposed to like your mother-in-law is a liar – mine is an actual angel.

  To my little sister, Donna. Thanks for keeping me on my toes growing up, stealing my clothes so I could write about it in a book one day and for having the best kids in the world. Grayson, you are the coolest dude I know, and Kyla, you are my best friend, even though that’s probably way too embarrassing for you to deal with right now. To Danny and Rosie, thanks for making my sister so happy. I miss and love you all.

  To my mum and dad. Where do I begin? I could not have wished for greater parents. Your love and support has been evident all throughout my life and I feel lucky that as an adult, I now class you as two of my best friends. I am so proud of and thankful for you both. Thank you for always letting me follow my dreams and never monitoring what I was reading. This book probably wouldn’t exist if you knew what kind of books Stephen King wrote when I was bringing them back from the library aged twelve. I love you both so much – thank you for everything.

  Finally, to my best friend and partner in crime, Luke. Whatever I did to deserve you is a mystery to me, but you continue to make me smile every single day. Thank you for encouraging me to write and never letting me give up on anything. Thank you for letting me bring Loli into our lives. Thank you for travelling the world with me, for putting up with my schemes and my phases and for looking after me when things get dark. You will always be the light that brings me home and I pray we have a long and healthy life together. I love you.

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  Cynthia Murphy’s next chilling read...

  HEAD GIRL

  CYNTHIA MURPHY

  1

  I didn’t mean to kill the first one.

  Honest.

  It was just … too easy, I suppose. She was already in the water, and when I plunged my hands in to help her out, I just kind of … changed my mind.

  Something inside snapped.

  I held Little Miss Perfect’s head down and waited for her to stop thrashing around.

  It took longer than I thought, and then she just … floated there. Limp. Pathetic, really.

  “Accidental death,” according to the experts. That’s kind of right. Like I said, it’s not like I set out to do it.

  It felt good, though.

  I suppose I’d better try not to make a habit out of it.

  2

  I can’t believe we’re back here already.

  Summer had passed by in a daze – not full of beach parties and staying up to watch the sunrise like I planned, but police interviews and PTSD. That last day of term had started so perfectly, and then…

  “Liz.” A sharp hiss and an elbow in my ribs brings me back to the present. Chloe is standing up straight, eyes focused on the stage, for all the world playing the perfect mourner. I copy her, my gaze following hers to a large easel draped in black. It’s displaying a large photograph of her.

  Morgan.

  The girl who drowned in July.

  “Pay attention.” Chloe says this out of the corner of her mouth like one of those creepy puppets. She does it so effortlessly – not one muscle in her face moves. I try, I really do, but my mind wanders as the headmistress’s words blur into one long sermon, each pause punctuated by the squeaking sound of rubber heels on the parquet floor. Autumn is seeping into the corners of the building already and the air smells of rain and damp, freshly laundered uniforms.

  I study the picture. Morgan was pretty – in a preppy, Reese Witherspoon in Cruel Intentions kind of a way. She looked so sweet and unassuming, which I know was total bull. Truth is, Morgan had the personality of a venomous snake. Even though she didn’t deserve to actually die, I don’t think anyone misses her. Especially not Chloe, who is doing a great job at looking devastated.

  The headmistress ends her monologue with the request for a minute of silence. I sway slightly, no longer used to standing up for so long after spending the summer in bed watching nineties movies. Chloe ignores me, her head down, eyes closed: the perfect pupil. And mourner. Her long, red hair falls like a curtain, spilling over the grey tweed of her blazer. Morton Academy’s very own Cheryl Blossom, standing right next to me.

  “So,” I try to whisper as we wait to file out of the hall, “how does it feel?”

  Chloe looks at me, smiling with her mouth but not her eyes. “How does what feel? Being passed over for Head Girl? Great, thanks for asking.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re deputy! That’s still pretty sweet. And” – I lower my voice, even though everyone else has resumed their own conversations – “you know what that means for Jewel and Bone.” Now the smile reaches her eyes.

  “Yes I do. I am very excited for—”

  “Hello, gorgeous!” A deep voice interrupts her as two heavy arms thump down around our shoulders. Marcus’s aftershave is so strong I start to cough, but Chloe immediately twinkles up at him. I duck out from under his arm and let them have a moment.

  “What do you both look so serious about?” He looks good, like maybe he actually slept this summer.

  “Oh, you know – life, death.” She waves a manicured hand in the air. “How I spent half an hour choosing a shade of lipstick that didn’t clash with the funeral flowers.” Chloe glances around furtively. “Actually, we were just talking about my ceremony at JB tonight.” She stands on her tiptoes to kiss him. “You know your girl is going up in the world.”

  “I sure do. I still think you should’ve got the top spot instead of Jameela, though…” He walks out of the hall with us, but I stop listening as we start up the corridor to the entrance hall.

  God, I missed this place. The stone ceiling soars over us, and Marcus’s shoes tap softly on the ancient wooden floor. The mahogany wall panels glow, sunlight streaming through the long windows that allow glimpses of the vast, manicured gardens beyond them. We pass the headmistress’s office and start to climb the large, curving staircase that always makes me feel like I’m in a Disney film. The handrail is gleaming, so polished that it’s slick beneath my hand. The whole place smells of wood and citrus and I adore it. It smells like home.

  “Hurry up, Liz.” Marcus and Chloe are watching me with amusement from the landing above, and I realize I’ve zoned out a bit. “Stop daydreaming.”

  “Sorry.” I take the remaining stairs two at a time and follow them through the huge double doors into the West Wing. Yes, I said West Wing – that’s how big this place is.

  The science rooms are right next to classics, so I watch
the perfect couple disappear into the lab and then enter my own class. There’s hardly anyone here yet, the assembly has interfered with the timetable for the first full day back, so I choose a desk in the middle, by a window that looks out on to a wide expanse of water.

  The lake.

  I move quickly, my flesh crawling, and take a pew at the opposite side of the room. I don’t want to get stuck looking at that all year.

  The classroom fills up slowly and I’m pleased we have a small group – not that we ever have large classes, with only a hundred of us attending Morton. The teacher arrives last and I’m pleased to see Professor Insoll again. The man’s a legend.

  We go through the first day back motions – new textbooks, a prep schedule, exam timetable. I’m busy writing my name on everything when a note slides across my desk.

  “Pass this to Jameela,” a voice hisses.

  Jameela? Hmm. I wonder if it’s JB business, but a quick glance around reveals no one else in the class would have that kind of information. I shrug and pass it over to Frank, who sits at the desk next to mine. “For Jameela,” I mouth. I go back to signing my name with a flourish and forget all about the note.

  Until Jameela shoots out of her seat, screaming, and drops the paper as though it’s on fire.

  Cynthia Murphy is a YA writer from the North-West of England, though her “real job” is in education. Cynthia has a long-standing love affair with all things scary, reading Point Horrors at primary school before graduating to Stephen King in her teens. Horror movies would be her specialist subject at a pub quiz, and as an art history graduate, she has a love for all things pretty, old and very often dead. Last One to Die is Cynthia’s debut YA novel.

  You can follow Cynthia on Twitter:

  @CynthiaMurphyYA

  Published in the UK by Scholastic Children’s Books, 2020

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  Text © Cynthia Murphy, 2021

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  under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ISBN 978 0702 30493 4

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents

  and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used

  fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead,

  events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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