Only One Survives, page 1
Praise for Only One Survives
“It’s rock’n’roll with a dash or two of murder in this juicy thriller that delves into the ugly side of fame. Only One Survives is devilishly fun, utterly addictive, and shockingly twisty—further cementing McKinnon as a force to be reckoned with!”
—Jeneva Rose, New York Times bestselling author
“A raw, honest exploration of female friendships, envy, and the price of fame. Both thrilling and moving, Only One Survives will keep you on the edge of your seat. McKinnon is an auto-read for me.”
—Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of Local Woman Missing
“Perfect for Daisy Jones fans who want an element of mystery and twisted suspense with their music, Only One Survives is a tour de force.”
—J.T. Ellison, New York Times bestselling author of It’s One of Us
“Like a relentlessly sinister version of psychological musical chairs, when this thriller’s propulsive soundtrack stops, Only One Survives. Standing ovation!”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, USA TODAY bestselling author of One Wrong Word
“A devilishly entertaining read that stabs at the heart of friendship, jealousy, and the relentless pursuit of fame. The thrills never waver in this gripping tale that sings with pulse-pounding suspense and spine-tingling twists and turns.”
—Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of Everyone Is Watching
“McKinnon drip-feeds us clues, keeps us guessing, and shows herself to be a maestro of misdirection.”
—Caz Frear, internationally bestselling author of Five Bad Deeds
“An absorbing, thrilling page-turner. Every twist left my jaw on the ground.”
—Samantha Downing, internationally bestselling author of A Twisted Love Story
“Gutsy, original and hugely compelling, Only One Survives draws you in right from the very first page.”
—B.A. Paris, internationally bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors
“McKinnon is a master at flipping the script with twists that will keep readers on their toes.”
—Kimberly Belle, internationally bestselling author of The Paris Widow
Hannah Mary McKinnon was born in the UK, grew up in Switzerland and now lives in Canada with her husband and three sons. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, Threads and TikTok, @hannahmarymckinnon.
Also by Hannah Mary McKinnon
The Revenge List
Never Coming Home
You Will Remember Me
Sister Dear
Her Secret Son
The Neighbors
For additional books by Hannah Mary McKinnon, visit her website, hannahmarymckinnon.com.
Only One Survives
Hannah Mary McKinnon
For music & thriller lovers, everywhere
Contents
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part Two
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue—Libby
Acknowledgments
Various are the roads to fame.
—ITALIAN PROVERB
PROLOGUE
42 days after the accident
Music Lovers,
I’ve guzzled three vats of coffee in record time. Could be why my mind’s racing faster than a cheetah on steroids but it’s more likely from the shock of what went down with the Bittersweet today. After failing to process the news, I came here to write a blog post. It was either this or a bottle of gin. To be honest, I’m not sure either will help make sense of it all.
If you’ve seen my recent posts, listened to my radio show What’s On NYC, or visited my social media, you’ll know I adore the Bittersweet, and you’ll have read about my devastation after what happened to the band last month. Their accident was such an incredible, tragic loss.
Since they rocked their way into my world last year, I’ve played “Sweet Spot” a million times on air, in my car, and while jogging through my neighborhood. Spotify’s profitability probably doubled because of me.
I’ve said this before and it merits repeating, it was time another all-female pop-rock group hit the scene. The Bittersweet, aka Vienna Taylor, Madison Pierce, Isabel Riotto, and sisters Gabi and Evelina Sevillano, were the perfect blend of powerful women who sang, played instruments, and wrote their own tracks. In short: they were kick-ass.
They once told me their sound was influenced by Blondie, the Bangles, Lenny Kravitz, Elastica, Lush, Oasis, P!nk, Prince, the Go-Go’s, and the more recent band The Beaches, but trust me when I say they were on their way to becoming legends in their own right.
I caught one of the Bittersweet’s shows last fall. Yeah, I’ve raved about it multiple times, so I won’t wax lyrical if you’ll pardon the pun, but it was easily in the Top-10 best concerts I’ve seen. The quality of their live performance and their showwomanship were off the charts. More like a band that had played together for a decade, not a little over a year.
They came into the audience afterward and walked through the crowd, taking selfies, and signing every single autograph request until there were no more. Down-to-earth and friendly, totally approachable.
After watching them interact with each other, and having interviewed them on my show, the best way to describe their relationship is united. They gelled, you know? You could tell this band would go the distance. I’d have bet anything they’d be around for decades.
Thousands of us were heartbroken when the news broke about their car crash. Few details emerged at first, although we soon learned that after the single-vehicle accident on an isolated stretch of road in the Catskills, they’d been stranded overnight at an abandoned cabin during a major snowstorm.
Next came a report of fatalities. The fans (myself included) were freaking out, speculating about who had perished. Finally, the cops released pictures of Vienna, and confirmed another person who’d been traveling with the Bittersweet had also survived. With the heaviest of hearts, we concluded Isabel, Gabi, Evelina, and Madison had died...until the cops confirmed Madison was—and to this day still is—missing.
The police remained tight-lipped about the details, so naturally the whispers started. Words like crime scene, perpetrator, and investigations, as in plural, got thrown around. I figured it was nonsense. Clickbait for the gullible. No crime had been committed. I felt certain the accident would be ruled exactly that, an accident, after which we’d mourn the demise of one of the most exciting up-and-coming all-female bands in recent history.
Seems I was wrong. In case you missed it this morning, Vienna was approached by the police at a public memorial service for Gabi and Evelina in Queens. Taken in for questioning about their deaths.
You read it right and, in this instance, I’m not the only one who thinks deaths is synonymous with murders.
I was at the church along with hundreds of other gatherers, and we all had dazed and confused expressions on our faces. Couldn’t believe it. Thought it was some kind of mistake, yet, sure enough, Vienna got into the cruiser, and they drove off.
But wait, there’s more! Apparently, Vienna might be a suspect in Madison’s disappearance (I can’t believe I wrote those words, I mean, wtf?).
Now, it might all be nothing but rumors and speculation, but for the cops to show up outside the church in front of all of us and the press, and whisk a startled-looking Vienna away? We all know the saying about no smoke without fire. There’s got to be substance there for them to risk doing this. But what?
In any case, whoever hadn’t heard of the Bittersweet before certainly has now. This morning’s sound bite of Vienna insisting she’s innocent has been viewed thousands of times already.
Holy crap, I hope she’s telling the truth because not only do I love the Bittersweet, but candidly I’ve been #TeamVienna from the start. She’s cool, ha
It might sound absurd, but someone so brilliantly talented can’t be guilty of murder, can they? Multiple murders. Could Vienna have hurt her girls? Where the hell is Madison? It’s been weeks since the accident and there’s no sign of her. Is she hiding? If so, why, when she could exonerate Vienna by showing up? Unless Madison fled because she’s the guilty one. Or they’re in this together. After all, they’ve been best friends since high school.
As I said, my mind’s spinning.
Tell me your theory about what went on in the Catskills. Could Vienna be a killer? What about Madison? Got another theory? Leave a comment, and if you hear anything, message me. We need to get to the bottom of the Bittersweet tragedy.
Stay tuned,
Melodie @musicalmelodiej
Comments (1,246—showing most recent)
@harry_dude92 Tragedy? Whatever. The Bittersweet sucked.
@georgiaonmym_ Four of them are dead, asshat. Shut up.
@harry_dude92 Being dead doesn’t make them any better. Well, kind of, since they can’t make more music.
@georgiaonmym_ You’re so gdmn rude
@musicalmelodiej @harry_dude92 Stay respectful
@harry_dude92 STFU your blog and show suck
@musicalmelodiej @harry_dude92 has been blocked. I don’t accept aggression.
@georgiaonmym_ Good! Btw I don’t think Vienna’s capable of murder
@bellybean56 I bet V killed them all #TeamMadison
@clefgalforever @bellybean56 How d’ya figure?
@bellybean56 It’s her eyes
@clefgalforever @bellybean56 huh?
@bellybean56 Cold. Brr.
@susie_jessica_hugs #TeamVienna? No chance! She’s 100% guilty.
@bellybean56 Agree. Whatever kicked off the Bittersweet shitstorm, I’ll bet it brewed for years. Way before the cabin, which was creepy af btw. What was that? The Shining Part II?
@cg_sunshine21 I want the entire story, right from the beginning when Madison & Vienna met. Warts’n’all. Everything.
@susie_jessica_hugs Hell yeah. Someone get on it already.
PART ONE
Truth and oil always come to the surface.
—SPANISH PROVERB
1
The day of the accident
Something screams at me to open my eyes. Just open your eyes. I don’t want to. Darkness thicker than molasses surrounds me like a cloak. It feels safe. Comforting. As if my brain already knows I can’t handle what I’ll see. If I look, no matter how small or fast of a glimpse, I’ll never forget.
As I press my eyes shut, trying to block out the voice in my head, long spindly shadows emerge from the depths of my mind. They beckon me to follow them, down, down, and I give in, ignoring the screaming as I let myself sink deeper and deeper into the stillness, a place of peace.
Vienna, open your eyes.
It won’t go away. Won’t leave me alone. A thought emerges from the thick fog swirling through my brain. The voice isn’t mine. It’s not inside my head. I raise a hand in a feeble attempt to bat the words away.
“Vienna, wake up,” the voice says, clearer now. “Please, please wake up.”
It’s a herculean effort to do as I’m asked, and as my eyes flicker open, I turn my head, glance over my left shoulder. Madison’s leaning forward and staring at me, her fiery red hair disheveled, her emerald eyes wild, wide with fear and a hint of what might be relief. I’m not sure what to make of the mixture. I’m not sure what to make of anything. I look away, but not before I see tears snake down her cheeks and drop onto her blue hoodie.
“Can you hear me?” she says.
My throat’s dry, rough as sandpaper. I don’t think I can speak but manage to push out a weak-sounding “Yes.” I nod in case Madison didn’t hear, and the movement brings a stabbing pain to the side of my temple. When I touch my head, I feel a tender lump beneath my fingers. Why am I hurt? Why—
Everything returns all at once. A sudden whoosh of thoughts and memories and fear—so much fear—banishing the darkness like birds startled from a tree.
Six of us were in my old Tahoe SUV. The Bittersweet—Madison, Gabi, Evelina, Isabel, and me—plus Libby, the documentary research assistant who’s been shadowing us over the past few weeks. It’s midafternoon in early December, and we were driving from Brooklyn to a holiday party in the Catskills hosted by our record label. A major event Madison insisted we couldn’t miss, no matter what.
No matter the impending storm.
A sequence of images flashes through my mind. Gabi offering to drive because I was tired. The weather turning earlier than expected, and far worse than anything we’d anticipated. Whiteout conditions. Getting lost in the middle of nowhere. A steep, winding, narrow road up a hill. Slippery lanes. Me tightening my grip on the cup of coffee in my hands, opening my mouth to tell Gabi we were perhaps going a little too fast.
And then...
My fists bunch tight as I recall the sudden movement when the Tahoe slid. This is when the memories slow down. It’s as if I’m watching the events unfold from above, all in slow motion. I remember the SUV getting closer and closer to the edge of the road. When I looked out of the passenger window, there was no asphalt left on my side, only the tops of snow-laden trees and a sharp drop below.
Renewed panic rises, making my heart pound. It leaps into my throat, threatening to choke me when I relive the sound of our collective screams as we crashed into the metal barrier.
There was a tiny moment of disbelief. A fraction of an instant when I truly believed we’d be fine, before the barrier gave way, and the Tahoe toppled over the edge of the road, right side first. One second, I thought we’d be all right, we’d be safe, and then we rolled once, twice.
After that...
I search my brain for what came next but there’s nothing.
My coffee cup’s empty, its contents spilled, the scent turning my stomach. At least the vehicle’s upright now, which I’m grateful for, but the front passenger side where I’m sitting is severely crushed, the windshield and front window shattered, half-gone. Thumb-size snowflakes drift in through the holes, landing on my jacket. As I watch them soak into the fabric and disappear, I long to go back into the darkness. Pretend none of this has happened. Maybe if I escape for a while, everything will be back to normal when I wake up.
Except I know it won’t.
“Are you all right?” I ask Madison, turning around again, and she nods.
I look at the others. Gabi’s in the driver’s seat, shoulders trembling, face pale, but she’s not making a sound. Libby’s in the back row, one hand over her mouth as she sobs. Evelina’s slumped face down on the floor, her body twisted at an unnatural angle. There’s blood on her jacket. My gaze searches for its origins but can’t find it.
Madison leans over, touches Evelina’s shoulder, but she doesn’t move. Was she knocked unconscious, too? Is that why it’s taking her longer to wake up? My gaze sweeps the rest of the vehicle, my temple throbbing again. It takes me a moment to spot what else is wrong.
There are five of us.
Five.
There should be six.
“Wh-where’s Isabel?” I say. “Where did she—”
“Look.”
The tone of Gabi’s whisper makes a shiver tear down my spine. She points to the broken windshield, and I follow her line of sight. At first, I’m unsure of what I’m seeing. A jumble of clothes at the base of a tree? It’s what I tell myself until I register the bright teal color. The exact shade of the puffer jacket Isabel wore when we left Brooklyn. The coat she refused to take off, even after we cranked up the heat.
“No,” I say, wrestling with my seat belt, breaking free. “No, no, no, no.”
Scrambling, I heave myself up and climb over Gabi, hands yanking on the driver’s door. Mercifully, her side opens, and I jump out.
