Just last week, we revealed our fourth Cosmo Reads book, further proving that 2026 is going to be the year of absolute killer reads—and our latest reveal fits the bill in more ways than one as we expand our imprint even further. We're always going to be suckers for a good romance, but sometimes we need something a little darker to get our hearts pumping, and no one does that better than Saratoga Schaefer. Their debut thriller, Serial Killer Support Group, kept us on the edge of our seats. Now, for their upcoming Cosmo Reads release, they dial it all the way up in a way that will leave you breathless.
The Last Time We Drowned, which will be released on June 2, 2026, follows protagonist Charlie Engles, who seems to win the chance of a lifetime: a spot on the Empress, an influencer-only yacht that only a special invited few get to experience. With dark secrets chasing her, Charlie sees this as the perfect escape. But not even being at sea can keep her safe, and she soon finds out that the biggest threat might be on the boat along with her.
We're warning you now: this story is not for the faint of heart. It's an incredible, one-of-a-kind psychological thriller that you won't be able to put down until the very last page.
Below is your official first look at The Last Time We Drowned, including a cover reveal and exclusive excerpt!
Six influencers. One luxury yacht. Nowhere to hide.
Charlie Engels is broke and desperate when her bookstagram account lands her the offer of a lifetime: join Empress, a state-of-the-art yacht houseboat off the Florida Keys turned influencer paradise. Lucrative brand deals and a ready-made "sisterhood" of internet stars―it may not be Charlie's dream job, but she knows she'd be a fool to turn it down.
It's also the perfect distraction; Charlie's eager to outrun her past and a staggering betrayal by her former best friend. Now, aboard Empress, Charlie is surrounded by dazzling women with their own baggage: the magnetic but ruthless leader, the spiraling fashion queen, the inseparable twins, the peacemaker with cracks in her confidence, and the memory of the influencer who Charlie is replacing. The same influencer who Charlie keeps seeing on board, even though the others insist she quit.
But when a hurricane traps the group at sea with their billionaire boss, the dream turns claustrophobic. Communications cut. Supplies dwindling. Old betrayals bubbling to the surface. Then the first body drops.
As paranoia mounts and alliances splinter, Charlie realizes the real danger isn't the storm outside―it's the deadly games being played below deck. And if she can't outwit a killer, her past won't be the only ghost that comes back to drown her.
Razor-sharp, atmospheric, and impossible to put down, THE LAST TIME WE DROWNED is a locked-room psychological thriller where luxury curdles into terror and survival comes at the highest price.
Don't let the gorgeous sunset in this cover fool you; there's no telling what's hiding in the waters once night falls.
Chapter 1
The heat is so wet and oppressive I can taste it on my lips. It’s the flavor of mildew and damp bathing suits. Beads of moisture line the back of my neck and the inside of my waistband.
Even my earlobes are damp.
The plastic cup that holds my iced coffee is warped and soft, as if it, too, is melting. Condensation glitters on its surface. I can relate. I’m not even moving and I’m sweating. There’s heat in my lungs, my rib cage, and the lining of my stomach, a heavy presence that settles like the spray from fumigation. It’s the kind of soggy, uncomfortable humidity that reminds me of a damp towel.
I spent two hours carefully picking out an outfit, trying to do my makeup, and attempting to style my pixie cut so that it didn’t look flat, only for it all to be ruined by the muggy air fifteen seconds after I got off the bus. Coming from Wisconsin in November, I thought the Florida temperatures would be a relief, but this is worse than the cold. It’s so swampy here that by the time I pulled my bag out from underneath the bus, my short-sleeved button-up top was already showing pit stains, and strands of hair were sticking to my forehead.
I walked thirty-five minutes from the bus depot to get to the café, sweat running in rivulets down my back. My duffel bag dug into my shoulder, leaving a welt on my skin. By the time I slunk through the door of the café, I was sure I had destroyed any dignity I had left. I grabbed a high-top table, ordered an iced coffee the color of sand, and thought about bailing on the interview entirely.
But I came all this way. Besides, I don’t want to move. I’m pretty sure if I walk back outside now, there will be nothing left of me except a sweat slick on the sidewalk.
I run a finger down the side of the cup, swiping away condensation droplets, enjoying the brief chill.
The café where I’m supposed to meet Vivienne Rockland isn’t air-conditioned, but it has an astounding view of the undulating turquoise waves of the Florida Bay.
The smell of the ocean pours in from the open windows, suppressing the musk of coffee beans. Salt overpowers the air as I sip my drink.
Florida is the worst, I think as I stare at my six-dollar coffee, trying not to ruminate on the fact that between the flight from Milwaukee to Miami and the bus ticket from Miami to the Keys, my bank account is only a few dollars above double digits.
“Oh!” An involuntary gasp comes from a young woman two tables away. Her face is buried in a book, and as my eyes snag on the familiar shiny blue cover, my stomach cramps.
A different kind of sweat collects along my temples and between my breasts; it’s cold and clammy. I can’t see the entire cover from this angle, but I don’t need to. I know it. It’s seared in my brain for all of eternity— the metallic cerulean scales, the elegant typeface of the title. The name stamped at the bottom, big and proud.
The woman reading draws the book even closer to her face, and her cheeks grow pinker and pinker. She must have gotten to the sex scene everyone on TikTok keeps talking about. Before A Song of Scales and Salt was published, everyone wondered about the mechanics of the promised steamy romance— how do mermaids fuck anyway? Fish sex isn’t very hot; it’s mostly the female expelling eggs into the water so the male can fertilize them. But the biggest new romantasy delivered. People couldn’t shut up about it. And I couldn’t escape it.
I get up, adjusting my seat so the woman and the book are no longer in my sight line.
Pulling out a compact mirror, I try to adjust my hair so it looks less wet as I wait for my heart rate to go down.
Don’t think about it. Everything is fine. Concentrate on the matter at hand.
At least my mascara isn’t running. I usually wear minimal makeup, but I’ve seen the girl I’m supposed to meet— she’s always in full glam, so I painted my face a little more than usual today.
I check the time. I got here early, but at this point, Vivienne Rockland is very late.
As I unlock my phone, a notification pops up: “You have a new memory!” It’s a selection of photos from last year. Sage and I with our faces pressed together, sticking our tongues out for the camera. A portrait of Sage on her boat, hair whipping in the wind, Lake Michigan glimmering in the background. Her laptop resting on her knees. One final shot of our notebooks side by side on a coffee table, pens askew next to them. It was one of our final writing sessions, during which I jotted down haphazard quotes and Sage scribbled furiously, refusing to show me her work, saying it wasn’t ready yet.
My stomach churns as my hands get hot. Why does it seem like our phones are programmed to show us the most painful memories in our camera roll?
I want to delete the photos of Sage, but I am torn. They’re all I have left of her. And the memories won’t be deleted. I know— I’ve tried.
Stop this. I tear myself away from the photos, hastily dabbing at my lower eyelids in case I messed up my makeup.
Where’s Vivienne Rockland?
I tap through my phone, overanalyzing her last email to me with the location and time of our interview, trying to psych myself up to send her a check-in, when the air in the café changes. The spark of lightning before a storm.
When I look up, there she is.
Vivienne Rockland is shorter than I expected, and her face is rounder than it appears in all her photos, but otherwise she looks the same as she does on her social media: shiny black hair, heavily made-up face, perfectly drawn-on eyebrows, and a pert little nose.
Spotting me right away, Vivienne rushes over to my table, ignoring the double takes from the other café guests as she moves through the space like she owns it. It’s not that she’s a recognizable influencer with well over a million followers; it’s not the immaculate plastic surgery that accentuates her chest and ass; it’s not the neon-orange athleisure set she’s wearing— it’s her energy. It radiates off her in waves.
“Oh my God, hi! I’m so embarrassed!” she says as she slides into the chair opposite me, eyes flickering as she takes in my muddled appearance, shabby duffel bag, and half-drunk coffee. “I’m never late. Our usual captain got sick, so the ride from Ligia to Islamorada was super delayed. I hope you weren’t waiting long.” Her voice is pitchy and breathless, but I know from watching her videos that her cadence isn’t from rushing— this is how she talks.
“No worries! I haven’t been waiting long,” I lie, trying to match her energy, infusing sunbeams into my voice. “It’s nice to meet you!”
How is she so dry? She doesn’t seem to be affected by the heat or humidity at all. Her makeup is perfect, her hair is floaty and thick. The stares of other customers, especially the men, waft around her. Vivienne flips a curtain of hair back from her face and giggles. I inhale a wave of flowery perfume from her hair products as her locks fall back down on her shoulders.
“It’s so amazing to meet you, Charlie! Or should I call you @ChaptersWithCharlie?” She winks.
Please don’t, I want to say. Instead, I smile and say, “Charlie is fine. Do you want a drink or something?”
“I’m okay for now,” Vivienne says, crossing her arms and leaning over the high-top table so that her cleavage presses together.
I get the sense she knows people are watching her. There’s something about her that is…performative. But I don’t care. I don’t care if she strips naked and does cartwheels; this is my only viable option. I need this job, as nontraditional as it might be.
“Well, I want to thank you for giving me this opportunity, Vivienne. It really means a lot.”
“Oh my God, please, call me Viv. And it’s no problem. Don’t even think of this as a formal job interview. We’re gonna chat, get to know each other, ’kay?”
Bullshit. This is the Big One, the most important interview of my life.
As if she can read my thoughts, Viv says, “I won’t waste any more of your time, so let’s get started! First off, why do you want this position? I know we chatted a little on our Zoom call about you wanting to expand your audience and reach new demographics, but c’mon. Give me the real reason.” She waggles her brows at me and leans forward.
“Well, I feel like what all of you are doing on Empress is a unique opportunity to leverage my personal brand and get to the next level,” I say, reciting the carefully scripted answer I drafted on the plane ride to Florida. “I mean, it’s brilliant too. A yacht full of influencers with various niches living together, promoting their brands? It’s like reality TV, except it has the potential to be beneficial. I think my focus on literature and helping people prioritize reading could be beneficial to us both.”
You used the word “beneficial” twice, you moron, I chastise myself. This is why you’re not a writer.
Viv grins and then opens her mouth wide, pretending to yawn. She splays her perfectly manicured hands on the high-top and licks the corner of her lip. “Firstly, Empress isn’t just a yacht. It’s more like a…mansion on the water. That can sometimes move. But seriously, come on, Char. That’s a canned answer if I’ve ever heard one. You’re my last interview. And I’ll be honest, you’re the only book influencer we’re looking at, and that makes you interesting to me. But something I value is honesty. That’s a rule for the girls on Empress; we live authentically and share our authentic lives with our followers.”
I work hard to keep my face under control as I listen. Forcing someone to be honest doesn’t sound too authentic to me, but there is something captivating about Viv that I can’t deny. I find myself leaning toward her when she talks, holding my breath so my exhales don’t mute any of her words.
“Come on, give it to me. The truth.” She reaches out, and, before I can stop her, her slender tanned fingers are wrapped around my right hand. Her index finger traces a little circle on the inside of my wrist, sending a shiver up my spine. “Tell me the truth.” For a moment, her voice changes. It becomes deeper, more commanding.
There’s something intoxicating about her. Something powerful. And I’m desperate. Hearing her mention other interviews, other influencers, ones who probably have more followers and more experience than me, has triggered a flood of panic. This opportunity could be slipping away like the beads of sweat that are racing down my shoulders toward the floor.
“I need the money,” I blurt out.
“Go on.” Viv’s finger stills, but she keeps hold of my wrist, nodding for me to continue.
“My student loans. Bills. Everything. My roommate…” I swallow, forcing away thoughts of Sage. “I don’t have a roommate anymore, and I’m having trouble finding someone to replace her, so I’m paying for the whole apartment myself. It’s way out of my budget.”
Everything is out of my budget, including this trip. I wonder if I’ll be compensated for the flight and bus ride. I didn’t think to ask Viv before now. I wanted to look like a team player, but maybe that was a mistake. My mother taught my sister and I the value of a hard-earned dollar. Despite being a single mom, she worked her ass off, saving up enough money as an anesthesiologist that when she died, her assets split between Emily and me, half of my college tuition was covered. My mother’s cancer didn’t let her see me graduate, but she got me there nonetheless. Yet school and simply existing these days is expensive, and I ran out of funds.
“I need this, honestly,” I admit, thinking of my remaining student loans, the pile of bills on my kitchen table. My outbox chock-full of hundreds of job applications with no response.
Viv releases my wrist so suddenly that I’m off-balance, as if her weight on my body was an anchor keeping me steady. “And your current job? Does it not pay enough?”
“I was working two jobs to make ends meet. I lost them both when…” I can’t help the crack that interjects itself into the middle of my voice. I try again: “My roommate died. It was…it was sudden. We were friends. I couldn’t…function, after.”
Viv’s face softens. Her lips twist sympathetically, and she coos, “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. Listen, I know how it feels to lose someone you love. It’s okay, Char.”
I try not to bristle. I can’t bring myself to ask Viv to not call me that. Only Sage ever called me Char. But if Viv gives me this job, she can call me whatever she wants.
“It’s been hard.”
“Of course. I had no idea.” Viv’s face creases in pity, but her makeup is too thick to show her full expression. Her empathy is muted by Botox and foundation. “I’m sorry.” She reaches out and grabs my hand again, patting it. “You know, besides the luxury and the generous pay and the increase in followers, there’s something else Empress can provide you with.”
“What?”
She smiles. “Family. The girls on Empress are all close. We’re each other’s best friends. Whatever you’re going through, whatever trauma you have inside, they will be there for you.”
I pause. A circle of women I could be friends with. That’s appealing. Almost as much as the money. Sage and I were close, but after everything went down, I was left alone. I tend to have a single focused, intense friendship instead of fifty casual acquaintances. It was Sage who was the social, connected one. Without her, I was adrift. First, we stopped being friends, then she died. And spending the past three months holed up in my apartment beset by anxiety hasn’t exactly been conducive to meeting new people.
Sometimes you don’t recognize how lonely you are until it’s explicitly pointed out.
Viv leans back, crossing her arms, appraising me. “I like you, Char. I think this would work.”
I meet her eye, unable to hide my surprise. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah. You were honest. I told you— that’s important to me. And I’ve already vetted you. I know your analytics are solid. You clearly didn’t buy a bunch of bots. Our other girls have way more engagement and sponsorships, but truthfully, 50K followers for a book influencer isn’t bad. Especially on Instagram, which is struggling to keep up with the newer apps. And we can help you level up. In return, you bring a…diversity I think our group needs.”
I pull back slightly. “Diversity? I’m white.”
“But not straight,” Viv says bluntly. “And your look.” She gestures to my short hair, the black and gray botanical sleeve tattoos that cover both my arms. “It’s something we’re lacking. I want people to take us seriously. Not think we’re a bunch of Insta thots partying all day long. Your vibe would help with that.”
I can’t decide if this is a backhanded compliment or not. “Uh, okay.”
“So, do you want to join us?”
I gape. “Really? You’re offering me the job? Right now?”
A paid position living on a luxury yacht docked off a private island in the Keys with a group of other influencers. Was this happening? I hoped, of course, but I hadn’t let myself think it was actually possible. The last time I did that, my lifelong dream was crushed like a flower petal under a combat boot.
As if summoned, the gilded, embossed title of A Song of Scales and Salt glints in my peripheral vision. The woman who was reading it earlier has left her table, the book tucked against her chest as she moves to the door. There’s a dreamy expression on her face.
My abdomen clenches.
The woman’s forearm doesn’t quite cover the author’s name, and I stare as it passes me by, standing out against the blue scales: SAGE TARTNET.
“I think you’d be a great fit,” Viv says, pulling my attention back to her smiling face. The woman holding the book disappears out the door behind her. “I don’t like wasting time. You’re here, your shit is here, my boat is in the harbor. Ligia Island is forty minutes away. You said you need the money. Why wait? You in, or what?”
Excerpted with permission of Cosmo Reads, an imprint of Sourcebooks, from THE LAST TIME WE DROWNED by Saratoga Schaefer. Saratoga Schaefer ℗ 2025 Sourcebooks, LLC. All rights reserved.
The Last Time We Drowned, by Saratoga Schaefer will be released on June 2, 2026 from Cosmo Reads. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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