The Last One to Fall

Praise for This Is Why We Lie “Starts with a shock and keeps you guessing to the end. Moody, atmospheric, and swirling with secrets, you won’t know who to trust the entire time—and you’ll cling to every word of Lepore’s gorgeous writing.” —Diana Urban, author of All Your Twisted Secrets “This fast-paced novel will keep teens guessing until the very end... Perfect for fans of One of Us Is Lying, this is highly recommended for thriller shelves.” —School Library Journal Gabriella Lepore is a YA author from South Wales in the United Kingdom, where she lives in the countryside with her husband and two kids. When she isn’t reading or writing, she can usually be found exploring the coastline or perusing a bookstore. She enjoys autumn days and cups of tea and is always searching for the next mystery. Follow her on Instagram, @gabriellalepore_books. GabriellaLepore.co.uk Books by Gabriella Leporeavailable from Inkyard Press The Last One to Fall This Is Why We Lie Gabriella Lepore The Last One to Fall For James and our wonderful adventures in life! Contents TEXTS SAVANA AUDIO FILE_MP3 SAVANA PART ONE JESSE LETTER SAVANA TEXTS JESSE TITLE: CASE_HPD0149_TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPTS SAVANA JESSE SAVANA JESSE LETTER JESSE SAVANA TITLE: CASE_HPD0149_TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPTS SAVANA JESSE JESSE SAVANA TEXTS AUDIO FILE_MP3 JESSE SAVANA JESSE NEWSPAPER ARTICLE JESSE SAVANA TITLE: CASE_HPD0149_TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPTS JESSE SAVANA LETTER JESSE SAVANA TEXTS TEXTS TITLE: CASE_HPD0149_TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPTS JESSE SAVANA TITLE: CASE_HPD0149_TEXT MESSAGE TRANSCRIPTS JESSE SAVANA JESSE LETTER SAVANA TEXTS TEXTS SAVANA TEXTS TEXTS JESSE SAVANA SAVANA JESSE SAVANA JESSE TEXTS JESSE JESSE PART TWO AUDIO FILE_MP3 JESSE SAVANA JESSE TEXTS SAVANA JESSE AUDIO FILE_MP3 JESSE AUDIO FILE_MP3 SAVANA SAVANA AUDIO FILE_MP3 SAVANA JESSE TEXTS SAVANA SAVANA AUDIO FILE_MP3 TEXTS JESSE NEWSPAPER ARTICLE TEXTS JESSE SAVANA JESSE TEXTS SAVANA JESSE TEXTS SAVANA TEXTS JESSE SAVANA JESSE JESSE SAVANA TEXTS SAVANA SAVANA SAVANA JESSE TEXTS JESSE SAVANA TEXTS SAVANA JESSE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS JESSE: Come to Cray’s Warehouse tonight. SAVANA: What? Why? JESSE: Just come. I need your help. SAVANA Friday, November 4 I pace across the paved square with my arms wrapped around myself. A cold wind is rolling in from the ocean and whipping at my hair. The marina is bathed in moonlight, and streetlamps line the water’s edge, bending long shadows through the quay. Wooden moorings rise from the ocean, with small yachts and fishing boats attached and moving with the tide. Everything is quiet, apart from the sloshing of water and clinking of buoys. It’s too quiet. Too dark. I shouldn’t be here. Ahead, Cray’s Warehouse is tucked away from the rest of the dock. It stands stoically in a sliver of pale white. The boarded-up windows and graffitied walls give away its years of abandonment. Cray’s used to be the place where all the boating equipment was stored, but an oil fire nearly burned the whole building to the ground a couple of years ago. Since then, it’s been deserted. A bunch of my senior classmates claimed it as a party spot over the summer break, and for a hot minute, it was the place to be. But that was back when the nights were balmy and dusky pink well into the evening. Winter is creeping closer now, and no one wants to brave the cold bite of the ocean air. I keep walking toward the warehouse, constantly scanning the darkest corners of the marina for Jesse Melo. I don’t know why he texted me, I don’t know why he needs my help, and I don’t know why I care. The sudden sound of shattering glass ruptures the night and stops me in my tracks. My eyes dart to the warehouse just as a silhouette falls from a window a few stories up, arms slicing and clawing through the air. An exhale escapes me. On instinct, I squeeze my eyes shut. But I still hear the thump. AUDIO FILE_MP3 Title: Case_HPD0149_911 Call OPERATOR: 911. What’s your emergency? CALLER: I need an ambulance. My friend has fallen from a window. OPERATOR: Okay, stay calm. Are they conscious? CALLER: No. The window was high. Four floors up or something. OPERATOR: What’s the location? I’ll send it to Dispatch right away. CALLER: Cray’s Warehouse. At the port. OPERATOR: Okay. Stay on the line, please, miss. Try to take slow breaths. CALLER: Yes, ma’am. I’m trying. OPERATOR: Can I take your name? CALLER: Savana Caruso. OPERATOR: Thank you, Savana. Just keep taking those slow breaths. Help is on its way. SAVANA Saturday, November 5 A draft is leaking beneath the police station door. It feels arctic in here. I shift in my hard seat and gaze around the sparse waiting room. The walls are painted white, with only a few posters promoting anti-crime ad campaigns and one corkboard cluttered with flyers. I’ve never been in this room before. The realization makes my stomach knot. Mom reaches out and touches my hand, and I flinch. “Is there anything you need, Savana?” she says. “Some water, or something to eat?” I clench my chattering teeth and shake my head. “I’m fine, thanks.” She gives me a sympathetic smile, then turns toward the reception desk. “Excuse me.” Her voice cuts through the stillness. The guy at the desk looks up. His face is distorted behind the glass partition that separates him from the rest of the room. From us. “How much longer are we going to be here?” Mom asks. “My daughter hasn’t slept all night. She’s traumatized, and I need to take her home.” I can see it brewing. She’s gearing up for full-on mama-bear mode, ready to grab her purse and bust us out of here. There are dark circles beneath her eyes from her own lack of sleep, and her golden-brown curls—a shade lighter than mine—look out of control. I don’t think either of us has stopped reeling since my panicked call from the marina last night. “Mom,” I whisper, tugging at her woolen sleeve, “it’s fine. I’m fine. They just need to ask me a