Where Can I Read 'The Last To Vanish' For Free?

I just finished 'The Last to Vanish' and immediately went hunting for a sequel. From what I've gathered, there isn't one yet—but the ending left so many threads dangling that a follow-up seems inevitable. The author Megan Miranda has a habit of writing standalone thrillers, but this one feels different with its rich lore about the vanishing tourists and that eerie Appalachian town. I'd bet money she's planning something. While waiting, check out her other book 'The Girl from Widow Hills'—similar small-town mystery vibes but with its own twisted secrets. Fans are speculating hard on forums about potential sequel clues. That final scene with the sheriff's hidden files? Pure setup. The protagonist's unresolved family history? Sequel fuel. Even if Miranda hasn't announced anything, the demand is there. In the meantime, 'The Sanatorium' by Sarah Pearse fills that same chilling-isolated-setting niche perfectly.

'The Last to Vanish' is a gripping mystery thriller with a strong psychological horror element. It blends classic whodunit tropes with modern suspense techniques, creating an atmosphere where every character could be hiding dark secrets. The story revolves around disappearances in a small town, with each vanishing act more baffling than the last. What makes it stand out is how it plays with perception—characters question their own memories, and readers are left guessing whether supernatural forces or human malice are at work. The pacing is relentless, dropping clues while maintaining enough ambiguity to keep you flipping pages. If you enjoy stories where the setting itself feels like a character—oppressive, mysterious, and alive—this novel delivers that in spades.

The killer in 'The Last to Vanish' is revealed to be the town's seemingly harmless librarian, Eliza Graves. At first glance, she appears to be just another quiet, bookish resident, but as the story unfolds, her meticulous nature and obsession with control come to light. Eliza methodically planned each disappearance, targeting visitors who threatened to expose the town's dark secrets. Her motive wasn't just about keeping the past buried—she derived a twisted satisfaction from orchestrating the perfect vanishings, leaving no trace behind. The final confrontation in the library, surrounded by records of her crimes disguised as local history, is chilling. Her calm demeanor while explaining her actions makes her one of the most unsettling villains I've encountered in recent thrillers.

The ending of 'The Last to Vanish' is a rollercoaster of revelations. After years of unsolved disappearances in the small mountain town, the protagonist finally uncovers the truth—the local innkeeper has been using the town's eerie reputation to lure victims. The final confrontation happens during a brutal snowstorm, where the protagonist traps the killer in the very caves where the bodies were hidden. The twist? The innkeeper's daughter helps bring justice, revealing she’d been gathering evidence against her mother for years. The last scene shows the protagonist burning the inn’s guestbook, symbolizing the end of the nightmare. It’s dark but satisfying, with just enough loose ends to make you wonder about the town’s future.

I've read 'The Last to Vanish' and dug into its background—it’s not based on a true story, but it cleverly mimics real-life disappearances in national parks. The author Megan Miranda stitches together elements from famous cases like the Dyatlov Pass incident and missing hikers in the Smoky Mountains to create that eerie 'this could happen' vibe. The setting, a remote mountain town with a history of vanishings, feels so authentic because it mirrors real places where people disappear without a trace. The book’s strength lies in how it blurs lines between fiction and reality, making you Google whether Cutter’s Pass actually exists (it doesn’t). If you enjoy this blend, try 'The River at Night' by Erica Ferencik—another fictional thriller that taps into primal fears about wilderness.

The climax of 'The Last Step' is a breathtaking fusion of emotional and physical intensity. The protagonist, after months of grueling training and personal sacrifice, faces the sheer ice wall of K2's Bottleneck—a notorious death trap. Winds scream at hurricane force, and oxygen is thinner than hope. Here, the story splits into parallel battles: one against the mountain's raw fury, the other against his own guilt for leaving his family behind. As he anchors his pickaxe into the glassy ice, a teammate falls. The choice is brutal—secure his own survival or attempt a near-suicidal rescue. When he lunges for the rope, the ice beneath him cracks like destiny laughing. What follows isn’t heroism but desperation, filmed in jerky, gasping details: frozen fingers, a torn glove, blood blooming on snow. The true climax isn’t summiting—it’s the radio call where he whispers, 'I’m turning back,' and learns that sometimes the last step is downward.

The ending of 'The Last Step' is a masterful blend of tragedy and redemption. The protagonist, after enduring countless trials, finally confronts the antagonist in a climactic battle atop a crumbling fortress. Their duel isn’t just physical—it’s a clash of ideologies, with the protagonist refusing to kill, instead offering mercy. This act shatters the antagonist’s resolve, who then sacrifices themselves to save the city from destruction. In the aftermath, the protagonist walks away alone, wounded but wiser. The final scene shows them kneeling at a grave, whispering a promise to rebuild what was lost. The sky clears, symbolizing hope, but the cost is palpable. It’s bittersweet—victory came at a price, yet the story leaves room for a future where scars heal and love endures.

The ending of 'The Last Letter' left me emotionally wrecked in the best possible way—it’s one of those conclusions that lingers long after you’ve turned the last page. The story builds toward this heart-wrenching crescendo where the protagonist, after a lifetime of regrets and missed chances, finally confronts the weight of their choices. The letter itself, the one they’d been avoiding for years, becomes the catalyst for everything. It’s revealed to be a love letter from their late partner, written before their death, filled with unspoken apologies and a plea for forgiveness. The raw honesty in those words shatters the protagonist’s defenses, forcing them to acknowledge how grief had frozen them in place. The final scene, where they scatter ashes at their partner’s favorite beach while reading the letter aloud, is devastatingly beautiful. It’s not a happy ending, but it’s a healing one—a quiet acceptance that love doesn’t disappear with death, and sometimes, closure comes from letting go. What makes the ending so powerful is how it mirrors the story’s themes of time and silence. The protagonist’s journey isn’t about grand gestures or dramatic revelations; it’s about the small, painful steps toward self-forgiveness. The letter’s contents are never sugarcoated—it’s messy, angry, and tender all at once, just like real grief. The supporting characters, like the protagonist’s estranged sister, play subtle but crucial roles in the finale. Their reconciliation isn’t tied up with a neat bow, but there’s a tentative hope there, a reminder that relationships can mend even after years of distance. The last line, where the protagonist whispers, 'I hear you now,' to the wind, is a masterstroke. It’s ambiguous—are they speaking to their lost love, or to themselves? That ambiguity is what makes the ending feel so alive, so human. It’s not about answers; it’s about learning to live with the questions.