Killing Kin

By Skye Knight Dent

In her new novel "Killing Kin", Skye Knight Dent, a noted TV hour-long sci-fi writer (Star Trek Voyager, The Burning Zone), takes on the challenge of creating a crime novel based on a real unsolved family murder.

"Killing Kin" is dark.  It's brooding.   It has passion.  It has supernatural elements.

It's a story of how secrets and emotional solitude can destroy the fabric of a family. 

But,most of all, "Killing Kin" is about one 28-year-old woman named Amelia and how she jeopardizes her own life to uncover those secrets and emotionally reunite her family.

Yes, her father, Henry, has just died from a disease that eroded the seal of his brain.

Yes, her mother, Ruby, is as cold and harsh as a Siberian winter.

Yes, her 17-year-old brother Cleveland, is just barely holding onto sanity and a fraying safety net.

And yes, there's her laconic, down-to-early cop friend Harry, who thinks she's insane for investigating long dead secrets that were buried with the dead.

But, there's dead and there's buried.  And although her brother, Winston, has been dead for over a decade, his ashes still felt like hot embers to her soul.  Embers telling her to resolve just who amongst her family and friends… were responsible …for his death.

"Killing Kin" is the basis for a soon to be completed screenplay.  The murder remains unsolved.

Skye Knight Dent is a journalist, professor and TV/Film WGA-west writer born in Boston.

She has worked for AP, The Boston Globe, Discovery Channel, CBS Evening News, The Univ. of North Carolina, the Cal State System, Star Trek Voyager, The Burning Zone, Dirty Sexy Money in addition to having sold feature film screenplays to ABC Studios and Showtime.

She is relentlessly single.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skye Knight Dent
• Release date: Nov 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781492293248

Skye Knight Dent

Skye Knight Dent is a novelist and TV/Screenwriter who began her career as a crime reporter.  She has also produced and written documentaries for Discovery Channel, written for sci fi TV series such as Star Trek Voyager and The Burning Zone, and co-created a safe sex video game for the CDC.  Her screenplays have been optioned and/or purchased by ABC Disney Studios and Showtime. She recently developed two pilot series and is in pre-production on a Dennis Haysbert film.  She is also writing the screenplay version of Killing Kin. Having an MFA from NYU Tisch School of the Arts, Skye Knight Dent also works as a tenure track professor teaching journalism, media law, media studies, screen/TV writing and production. She lives both in her hometown of Boston and Los Angeles.

Book preview

Chapter One

‘You Get What You Wish For’

DOOR'S OPEN FOR A REASON, Miss.

The bus driver honked for emphasis. Not that Amelia Chatman needed the second reminder.  She knew she was home.  She just didn't want to be there.

Sure, she had come of her own volition, with no prompting from or warning to anyone.

In fact, no one even knew Amelia was arriving.

After all, it was just yesterday that she had asked for an impromptu two-week vacation from her editor, crossed the country red-eyed on the red-eye, and smooched herself onto the first morning bus for what seemed like a never ending ride past cliff-carpeted towns and villages she had hoped were long since faded from her memory . 

So much for depending on hope.

Through all her speedy preparations and the dusk to dawn flight, she knew she didn't want to be home.  Nothing good ever came of it before.

Amelia lugged her suitcase down the bus steps with a stern reminder to herself.

I'm not here for something good.

The bus door closed with the finality of a prison gate.  It lurched away, its tires flipping bits of pebbles back at Amelia, almost as if the bus were spitting good-bye, good riddance.

AMELIA WAS A 28-YEAR-old, eye-catching blend of West Coast funk and East Coast punk. She wore Wrangler jeans, topped off with a tie-fitted top, flashy jacket, Elgin Charles gold and black scarf, and close-cropped, copper hair with honey blond streaks.  Everything about Amelia said Now except for the faded 50s men's Cavanagh hat...and even that looked hip.

Amelia glanced around. In many ways, the town had changed...and in many other ways it hadn't.

The fish business that once made its residents proud as well as prosperous? Dried up.

The mill business?  Taken elsewhere.

Millerstown still had its charm, thanks to townies who refused to let appearances reflect their vanishing checking accounts. In fact, the town still had schools, banks, and all the basics one expected of a stable community.  But, the frayed-around-the-edges taint gave away the fact that a healthy economy was not one of the things Millerstown sported.

In other words, this was a town still loved by many, but ignored by most.  Betwixt boom and bedroom.

Amelia started walking down the lane.  Her face reflected the resolution of a sidelined ball player permanently stuck on the disabled list.

She passed a white oak tree.  On the back, her initials still engraved after all these years.

A wolf-whistle cut the air, cutting off any memories that the initials might have generated. Amelia looked up.  It was one of several construction workers laying ground for a new 7/11. His admiring look didn't sway.

Amelia gave him the finger.  Paused to light a cigarette.  And then continued walking to the Cape Cod style home at the end of the lane. Continued walking to death's door.

Amelia hadn't noticed the driver inside the dark gray sedan, a driver who'd been watching her every movement since the moment she stepped off the bus.

WHY SHOULD SHE HAVE? She had been too busy talking to herself.

Get a grip. Amelia.

Yeah! Right! Like such an admonition had worked any of the other times she’d returned home and felt the same trepidation that was studding her body with each step.  She guessed some people would say you get what you wish for.

And within a day of each of her prior visits, something happened that drove her to quickly get a return ticket and escaped to the comfortable superficiality of Los Angeles.

But, here she was, pre-dawn and unprepared. The keys jangled in her hands as she fumbled at the carved oak entrance to her family’s Cape Cod style home. The home Amelia grew up in.

A hallway light flipped on.

Ruby Chatman, 50s, advanced down the paisley-carpeted stairs.  Amelia’s mother.  Her eyes were clear and unclouded.  She paused mid-level, hesitating, both wondering and worrying at who'd be visiting so early and why.

But, then she surged forward, as if what will be will be.

A black pleated skirt stretched below Ruby's calves.  She rushed to button a high-collared floral blouse, stepped into black pumps sitting on the last floor rung, and strained to see through the curtained door window.

Ruby presented a matronly figure from her opaque panty-hose with reinforced toes to her legs thickened by time and matted varicose veins to the tight French twist imprisoning every strand of hair.

But, when she walked, her steps were light, her movements frenetic.

Ruby was an inherent contradiction, sometimes even to herself.

SHE PULLED BACK A COMER of the curtain just as Amelia finally negotiated entry.  Ruby jumped as Amelia, unaware of her proximity, almost hit her with the swing of the door.

Mom! I didn't see you, exclaimed Amelia.

Ruby was about to say something when Kelly ran out, saw Amelia, and launched towards her.  Kelly was the only member of the family unafraid to demonstrate feelings.  Dogs were like that.

Amelia tried to keep the Irish Setter, from bounding all over her or outside the door.  Finally, Ruby interceded.

Kelly!!!  Go!!! grumped Ruby, Kitchen!!!

Ruby's tone?  Harsh and cold as a Siberian winter. 

Ruby was a remote, recalcitrant woman with a visage that showed no hint of kindness.  Kelly quickly obeyed. 

Amelia hugged Ruby.  Ruby halfway hugged, halfway patted Amelia on the back the way people never comfortable with public displays of affection do.  Amelia's expression said she was used to it.

Oh! I didn't know you were coming so soon. Your brother would've come get you, said Ruby, trying unsuccessfully to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

Amelia studiously ignored the tone.  She's determined to ignore any and all irritating statements from her mom, knowing that sometimes the fact that they came from her mother and not someone else was sufficient cause for irritation.

I didn't want to bother him, said Amelia.  Besides, the way he drives, all up on people's fenders, I'da been in some ditch.

Ruby led the way into the kitchen. Everything's dour yellow. The walls. Stove. Fridge. Yellow. Dour.  Amelia tried to lighten the room with a breezy tone.

You painted again, said Amelia.

Just a few weeks ago.

Ruby was the exact opposite of Amelia when it comes to words. Ruby was inexpressive, uncommunicative. 

Amelia was a speed-talker. Words, like swarms of bees, surrounded her.

Mom, I keep telling you. You should get the leaks fixed so you don't have to keep painting all the time.

Amelia put some water in a small pot on the stove to boil.  She sat at the two small table.  She'd really wanted a Seven and Seven.  But, that would have to wait for later and certainly at a time when Ruby was not around. 

Ruby remained still back in the Fifties when it came to women drinking.  Not that women didn't drink back then.  But, Ruby didn't run in those circles.  In fact, as far as Amelia could tell, her mother never ran in any circles that did anything fun.  She just got married and had children, like most women who grew into their Twenties in the Fifties.

Ruby responded with irritation.  It seemed the two had the same effect on each other.

You don't talk to me about painting my walls, I won’t say nothing about painting your hair.

Ruby poured the water into a larger pot.

That pot doesn't cook water fast, said Ruby.

I'm not going anywhere fast, Amelia responded.  Ruby rolled her eyes like she’d heard it before.

I'm heading to work, said Ruby, I don’t have time to make you breakfast.

Ruby removed the suitcases from the corner that Amelia put them in and moved them closer to the door entrance. 

Throughout her life, Ruby unconsciously re-did what others did.  As if she were fixing errors only she could see.  Oddly enough, Ruby hadn't touched the hat that Amelia left near her suitcases.

Amelia looked at the plastic covering the table.  She looked down the hall into the living room.  Plastic covered the furniture there.

Mom. Why are you still covering stuff with plastic? complained Amelia.

Oh, Amelia, you know I like to keep my furniture nice, said Ruby. Don't start trying to change things.

I just always wondered.  That plastic always stuck to my legs, said Amelia.

Not if you wore stockings like proper girls do.  You girls never even wore girdles, said Ruby.

Amelia smiled at the old-fashioned notion.  Ruby mistook the smile as a sneer.

You didn't have to come home, said Ruby.

An echo of a conversation fifteen years ago.

A time so far away in time, yet always on the surface of Amelia's memory.

15 YEARS AGO

She was only thirteen and trying hard. Trying hard to fit in at a girl’s New England private school that didn't usually let in people like her, people from mill-fishing towns, people without money and legacy. 

Already she stood out.  She had chosen to stay at the school through the Thanksgiving holiday because she had not been able to afford to go home.  Sure there were a number of other girls doing the same.  But, not because they didn't have the money.  Hell, there was more than enough money in the lives of these young co-eds.

The family of Amelia’s roommate, Laurel Miranda, had so much money that when she was sent from 90210 to this Western Massachusetts prep school zip, her parents transported Laurel’s three horses with her.

Laurel's father was a power player in the telecommunications world.  Shipping and stabling a few horses for his daughter's pleasure was nothing.  Seeing her and spending time with her over the holidays? Now that was a bit much to ask?

So, when Laurel raced towards Amelia on the lacrosse field...yes, lacrosse...Amelia knew she shouldn't underestimate her.  Laurel's chance to release her frustration could mean a point in her favor, and against that of Amelia's team.

Ouch!!!  BAM!!!!!

Three bodies slammed together. 

Sticks crossed like lances.

Ten girls, 13-15 years of age, mud-stained uniforms, scowls to outmatch Wayne Gretsky.

Get her!  Don't let Amelia get inside! shouted one teenager.

''I'm trying!" huffed a second.

A third opponent, running and breathing hard, gasped out She's just...a ...low level sophomore.  Catch her.

The amused coach, Miss. Burns, piped in from off-field. 

Girls, remember.  This school was founded on religion, not homicide.

Amelia made a sudden break, pigtails flying. Or so she thought.

Oomph!!

Laurel plowed Amelia into the ground. Laurel smiled her half-hearted regrets...and swept the ball away.

Amelia lay on the ground.  Clutched her stomach.  Sudden agony.  She was surprised. The impact hadn’t been that bad.

Her vision clouded. The surrounding sounds disintegrated to a mesh of whispers.  She felt something malevolent lurking. She strained to see. And still. A shrouded world.

Oddly. She felt no tears. No fears.

Just an overwhelming sadness.

A teammate's admonishment brought her back to the present past.

Amelia. Get UP!!!

Clarity returned.  It's as if time had passed for her...and no one else.  She nervously laughed it off and charged after Laurel.

OK, roomie.  I'm warning you.  I'm gonna' sweep your feet, taunted Amelia.  It's apparent they're the best of friends.

You can't do that!  It's against the rules, said Laurel indignantly.

That's why I'm telling you first!  I'm perpetrating, girl, said Amelia as she made her move.  Amelia tried to trip Laurel.  Laurel dodged the first attempt, but the second?  No such luck.

SPLAT!!

Laurel's a lame duck in the mud.  Amelia raced back to her goal as her teammates held off opposing forces.  Amelia dashed back to assist Laurel.  Laurel sat laughing in the mud. Amelia pulled her up. 

Laurel surreptitiously dropped some mud down Amelia back and gave her a friendly pat on the back.  Amelia jumped.

Aaah!!! Aaahhh! she cried.

Miss. Burns looked up.  Is something wrong, girls?

Nothing. Nothing at all, said Amelia with a bright, false smile. Then to Laurel, Watch your back, roomie.

BUT, IT'S AMELIA WHO was watching her back, wondering if her imagination had been playing tricks.  Or was it something or someone else?

By evening, Amelia had passed off the incident as something from her imagination. Nothing to interfere with the fun of making hot cross buns with the Thanksgiving Holiday stuckies.

Believe me, said Laurel, staying at school for Thanksgiving was the best decision I ever made.

Me too, said Amelia, Finally learning to cook.

One of the other girls gave her a strange look. "Why would you want to?''

Amelia spoke the truth without thinking of the consequences.  My mom will cook turkey her way, which I love.  But, if I ask her how to cook something, my daddy put his two cents in.  They always end up fighting.  And I never get to cook.  Last Thanksgiving, my parents got so mad at each other, daddy threw the turkey in the dumpster.

Only when she looked up and saw the shocked faces of the other girls did she remember being open was not always the best way.  She played it off.

Boy, that was one fowl Thanksgiving, said Amelia.

The girls still were not sure. Amelia gave her most convincing smile. 

A joke, girls. Come on!

The other girls chilled. 

But Laurel's concerned look said she thought otherwise.

What time is it? asked Amelia.

Why? asked Laurel.

Girl, would you just tell me the time fore I give you five across the eyes, laughed