Killing Chrissy Carmichael

By Margot Drew Delaney

When the body of Silver Bay's golden girl Chrissy Carmichael's washes up on the lakefront, long buried secrets begin to worm their way to the surface... and the discovery of her lost diary becomes the catalyst for everything to change.

 

Cleo Williams needs a break. An escape. A chance to distance herself from her most recent mess. So when she learns her aunt's Silver Bay cottage will be vacant all summer, she immediately packs her bags. Finally, a chance to relax and regroup and figure out how to get her life on track. But soon after she arrives, Cleo is reminded of the awful night that sent her scrambling home eight years ago, and of the ugliness that can hide behind idyllic veneers. Cleo tries to shroud herself in her aunt's life, to shield herself from her creeping failure, but she's out of options and thinks she'll have to crawl back to the scratchy turmoil of her family home, defeated. Until she stumbles across Chrissy Carmichael's diary.

 

Reluctant to revisit the Silver Bay police station, Cleo turns to the one Carmichael she's willing to trust: Chrissy's beguiling older brother Blair.

Blair presents Cleo with an offer she can't refuse.

 

Meanwhile, the Romano and Mackie families have converged at their shared lake house as they've done many summers before, but this year is different. As family tensions grow, Dylan Romano finds himself stepping into new shoes. Challenging his father, watching over his sister, and falling in love… all the while becoming entangled in a murder investigation.

 

And Chief Reggie Michaels, finally realizing he needs to free himself from his self-made cage, is being haunted by an old death and wonders how it might be connected to recent events.

 

As the past collides with the present, one body becomes two.

 

Is there a killer in this supposedly sleepy town? And who might be next?

 

"Immersive atmosphere" and "deliciously flawed characters".

"Unpredictable."

A multi-POV story that will keep you guessing.

 

**Note, this title was previously published as The Drowning by Margot D'Archer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SWARM Publishing
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738625604

Book preview

KILLING CHRISSY CARMICHAEL

A small town murder mystery

MARGOT DREW DELANEY

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SWARM Publishing

Copyright © 2023 Margot Drew Delaney. All Rights Reserved.

Published by SWARM Publishing, Auckland, New Zealand

ISBN (epub) 978-1-7386256-0-4

ISBN (kindle) 978-1-7386256-1-1

ISBN (print-on-demand paperback) 978-1-7386256-2-8

Killing Chrissy Carmichael is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents, except those clearly in the public domain, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, names, places or incidents is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Note, this novel was initially published as ‘The Drowning’ by Margot D’Archer.

Contents

CHRISSY

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

BRODY

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

BLAIR

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

SAVANNAH

DEAR READER

A FREE NOVELLA

KILLER FOCUS

A DETECTIVE DUO LIKE NO OTHER

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHRISSY

Chrissy Carmichael slipped inside Lachlann Manor and eased shut the heavy wooden doors. There she paused, listening for the telltale sounds of an audience. Marble and tile and unadorned walls, the foyer was designed to generate traitorous clatter. To betray any arrival or departure. Her grandmother wanted to know everything that went on in her house, but Chrissy had learned how to escape silently. In more ways than one.

She ran lightly up the wide, curved staircase to her room. As she took a seat at her dressing table, a smile twitched at her mouth. She had a secret to add to her collection, a juicy one. It burned a little, sure, but now it was all hers. Another shiny gold nugget that could be used to trade for something better. Currency. A weak moment, a bad decision, a vice indulged. Tasty morsels of deviance. Proof that others wore masks as well. But best of all, secrets meant freedom. Because this town was suffocating; strangling her in tiny moments.

At the sound of footsteps, Chrissy transferred the flash drive from her pocket to the dressing table drawer. When she turned, Blair stood at her bedroom door.

Brother, she said.

Sister. He leaned against the doorframe.

Blair wore his platinum hair in a messy shag that defied the style of any one decade. Razor-sharp cheekbones cut across his face and his hazel eyes were enhanced with just a hint of eyeliner. The two of them were similar, but Chrissy’s own face was round and soft and approaching ordinary. Puppy fat on her cheeks remained where his had melted away. She’d always admired his more dramatic look. That and how he was able to drift around town like an out-of-work poet. Chrissy wished she could get away with being distant and dreamy and unaffected by other people’s expectations. To not have any life plans other than to have fun. To exist. The rules that had been handed down to Chrissy at what felt like a very young age did not seem to apply to him. At least, not in the same way. She’d somehow become the face of this town, the one everyone was watching—as if her future belonged to them—while Blair chased one impulse after another. A rabbit-hole of indulgence. She’d been named ‘most enviable’ in last year’s poll but really they had no clue. Really, her older brother was the one to be jealous of. But she didn’t blame Blair. He had his own labels to worry about.

Is Mussolini home? she asked.

Not yet, Blair replied, sounding distracted. In the mirror she saw his eyes drop to his phone, a smile playing at his lips.

Who’s giving you love?

A lazy grin crossed his face. Let’s just say I won’t be lonely this summer.

As if you ever are. So, who is this mystery person? Fresh blood?

You’ll see.

Chrissy flinched.

Blair’s brow knitted together as he studied her face. What’s up?

She tossed her hair and pasted on a smile, ignoring his question. You first. At least give me a clue. She nodded at his phone.

He rolled his eyes, but smiled. Fine. A tourist, but a regular one. Tall… dark-haired. He raised one eyebrow, throwing down the challenge.

Chrissy tapped a finger against her chin, thinking. I would have guessed Bella but she’s going to Europe this summer. Which means it must be… Dylan Romano? He nodded, his mouth curving up, light dancing in his eyes. Chrissy latched her gaze onto his. Watch out for his father, okay? He has a temper.

Blair frowned. How would you know?

I can just tell. She waved off the topic.

Parker’s party tonight? he asked after a moment.

Chrissy made an irritated sound. As if.

Thought you two were friendly again?

She glanced at where the flash drive lay hidden in the top drawer. I changed my mind. We’re done. He— She shook her head.

Blair looked uncertain. You used to love parties.

Chrissy faced herself in the large, gold-rimmed mirror. Maybe, but now she couldn’t bear them: the cloying superficiality, the choking banality. The feeling that they were all in a play and she was a character written by someone else.

Who says I’m not going to a different party… a better one?

Blair raised his eyebrows. You’re being mysterious.

Chrissy shrugged, then tilted her head as she continued to regard her reflection. Her long blonde hair hung loose, so she swept it up in a topknot. Did this style make her look older? More powerful? Like someone who could make things happen?

"But as the most popular girl in school, Blair continued, now smirking, aren’t you obliged to attend?"

Give it a rest.

Blair took a couple of steps into her room. Chrissy, seriously, what’s up?

Nothing. Just. Whatever.

Why—

I said leave it.

A look of pain flashed across his face. You used to—

What, wear diapers? Yeah. I’ve grown up. You should try it too.

A frown pulled his eyebrows low. Don’t take your pissy mood out on me.

She rolled her eyes. You can’t take it?

When are you leaving for college again? he said, his voice hard, hurt.

As soon as I can. I know it’s hard to imagine for someone like you.

His head jerked back. Someone like me?

Happy to stay trapped in this town. A stupid fly in a pretty web. She tilted her head. "Or maybe that should be a pretty fly in a basic web."

He recoiled, then swallowed. Why are you—

Blair. I’m just teasing.

"No. You’re not. You’re swinging your bitch blade. I get it, but why are you trying to cut me."

In spite of everything Chrissy smiled. Bitch blade.

Why are you being so sensitive? Chrissy countered.

Blair shook his head. Whatever. He turned to leave. If you do go out tonight, take a coat. It just started raining, he threw over his shoulder.

"Okay, Mom."

As soon as he’d gone, Chrissy closed her eyes and sunk lower in the chair, her chest a painful squeeze. An ache of betrayal. But it was the only way. Otherwise she’d never be able to extract herself.

After a moment, Chrissy went to her bedroom door and listened—those ‘house helpers’ liked to lurk—then closed it and returned to her dressing table. She retrieved the flash drive and crossed the room to her walk-in wardrobe. Using the footstool in the corner, she reached up to the top shelf and brought down an ornate wooden jewelry box. She placed it on the floor, raised her hands to finger the gold key necklace gracing her neck, then leaned down to use the larger of the two keys to unlock the box and place the flash drive inside.

One step closer to freedom. And if tonight went as planned, she'd be out of here before the end of summer.

1

CLEO

Iglared at the rain drumming against the windscreen. What happened to sun-soaked days and balmy nights and how could I be lost? Silver Bay is hardly a bustling metropolis, and I’d spent a whole summer here when I was sixteen. Eight years ago, but still. I’d expected to cruise into town on autopilot, effortlessly arriving at my destination. Irritated, I grabbed my phone from the passenger seat. It couldn’t be far. Suddenly, a wave of fatigue rushed at me—a blizzard out of nowhere. I closed my eyes. I didn’t even have a good reason for the tiredness that clawed at me, pulling at my muscles and pushing fog into my brain. Yes, I’d recently lost my job and my apartment, and no, my ‘friends’ weren’t speaking to me, but so what? It was the normal turning, churning, of my life’s wheels. From one screwup to the next. Except this time, it felt worse. A sudden slap in the face instead of a slow inevitable creep. An abrupt realization that my struggle against the current was pointless. The battle against my shitty upbringing had probably been lost years ago.

I blinked my eyes open and sat up. No. Aunt Emma’s gorgeous, rent-free cottage was somewhere nearby. All I had to do was remember where, exactly, and then I could spend the whole summer resting, relaxing, and getting my shit together. I returned my gaze to the world beyond the window. A few feet away, the lakefront promenade stretched both ahead and behind me, bookended by the woods at the north and the marina at the south. To my right a row of shops and restaurants faced me—which meant I was on Silver Street—and a few of them triggered some immediate memories. Like the bookstore, where Joaquin and I bumped into a bratty couple and almost got into a fight. And the antiques shop Aunt Emma and I used to walk past on the way to brunch. We’d stop to peer in the dusty window, Emma pointing out various pieces while I pretended stuff like that interested me too. And the Silver Bay Police Station, a squat brick building facing the water, nestled between a hardware store and what looked like a doctor’s office.

The police station I remembered clearly. Was Reggie Michaels still there? If I bumped into him, would we recognize each other?

I returned my attention to my phone. Hadn’t I made a note of Emma’s address when I came back to Silver Bay three years ago? I scrolled through a long list of mostly useless notes to myself until I found it: Emma Jones (summer cottage) 88 Ascot Avenue, Silver Bay, Ontario. I typed this into Google maps then rolled my eyes. My destination was only a couple of minutes away. I dropped my phone into my lap and went to start the car. It chugged, gurgled once, then died. You have got to be kidding me, I hissed.

I leaned against the headrest, taking a moment to rally against the resurgence of lethargy, then pulled the keys out of the ignition and shoved them into my pocket along with my phone. I yanked my bomber jacket up so that it covered at least part of my head and ran around to the trunk. I grabbed two of my four bags—all I could carry—and started toward Emma’s place.

Five minutes later I arrived on Ascot Avenue, a cul-de-sac only a couple of blocks back from the promenade but more secluded because of the Silver Bay woods. The branches of the large pines reached out from the end of the street, as if trying to make inroads into the residential area. I paused briefly to take in the dark exterior of Emma’s cottage, dwarfed by the two large houses on either side but a palace for a girl with nowhere else to go. It had been pure luck that I’d been killing time on Facebook right when Emma had commented on a post by the Silver Bay Community Group. They’d asked for volunteers for the annual street party and she’d replied: Sorry, I’ll be overseas all summer. She’d even given her departure and arrival dates because Silver Bay was the kind of place where posting that information decreased the chance of a break in. And just like that, I had a plan. The universe had come through with a solution to my no-job-and-no-apartment double whammy, and now I could catch my breath and figure out a way to keep moving forward.

I went down the side of the house to where French doors led out to the back patio and counted out the third pot plant from the right. Ignoring the pulse of uncertainty—what if she’d changed her hiding spot? —I leaned down. Yes, I whispered as my fingers brushed against the metal key. I’d cleared the first hurdle. I crept back around to the front and unlocked the door. With my phone ready on the notes page where I’d stored the alarm code next to the address, I eased open the door and hurried over to enter the four digits. I waited, holding my breath. It beeped once and went green. I flicked on the light switch and the hall burst into illumination. Three hurdles down, one to go. I held another breath as I checked whether my phone had automatically connected to the Wi-Fi. Yes. A smile pushed at my mouth. My rest-and-recover summer relied heavily on unlimited internet access.

I kicked off my shoes and hung up my damp coat. Already more relaxed, I strolled down the short hallway past two smallish bedrooms and a bathroom on the right, and the large, lake-facing living room on the left. The kitchen-and-dining room was open plan, leading out to the back patio, and in the middle of the space was a staircase to the attic-style second floor, home to the master bed and bath. The décor was simple and elegant—something along the lines of ‘modern rustic’, with a mixture of carpeting, beautiful polished wooden floors, and elegant tile. I took a moment to pause at the huge bookcase on the far wall. Until the summer I stayed here I hadn’t read a single book all the way through—at least, not voluntarily. But Emma had somehow made books seem cool, even to my cynical sixteen-year-old self.

I let my fingers trail along the book spines before grabbing two psychological thrillers and wedging them under one arm to take upstairs. Inside the door to the bedroom, I set everything down and crossed the room to open the curtains. There, I took in the calming patter of rain against the window. Something shifted, clicked, settled into place. The panic that had been swirling through my system for the past couple of weeks, growing in momentum, had been halted. At least paused. For now, for a while, I could breathe.

I turned and ambled over to Emma’s wardrobe, marveling at the beautiful clothes she had gathering dust in her vacation home. Aunt Emma, the family triumph. The one who’d made something of herself. The one who’d gotten away. Maybe that’s why I’d come here. In addition to rent-free accommodation, I needed to be in the proximity of success.

I hadn’t even known I had an aunt until I picked up the landline one day—Mom and Dad didn’t bother with mundane life tasks such as answering the phone or telling me about relatives. And even though at sixteen I was at the height of self-involvement and fueled entirely by hormones and suppressed rage, a part of me had immediately paid attention. Because with the smooth calm tone of her voice and her educated-sounding vowels, I could tell Aunt Emma was different. To Mom and Dad. To me. And in that moment, light sparked. Hope. Maybe an alternative existence was possible.

Emma had called to tell us that my grandmother had died. I’d written this down on a scrap of paper, as if Mom and Dad weren’t sitting five feet away on the couch. As if I couldn’t hand over the phone or relay the message verbally. Eyes fixed ahead, focused on the flickering of the TV screen—too bright and too loud—they weren’t to be bothered.

And when Emma had given me her number, in case I needed it—maybe she’d known I would—I’d written this down as well, my heart thumping in my chest. Because I knew what it represented. A chance for something different. Opportunity. Escape.

Only a couple of months later, I found myself taking this chance. One ordinary Friday, I’d come home from school to the smell of all-day smoking, the paraphernalia of all-day partying, and a strange man on the couch. Completely naked. As he sat there, casually fondling himself, a woman—also missing her clothes—strolled out of the bathroom and straddled him. From the corner of the room someone grunted, and I saw a scrawny man—eyes wild with something—fix his attention on me. I’d lurched away, locked my bedroom door and called Aunt Emma. I’d gathered all the confidence I had and asked a virtual stranger if I could visit. Emma planned to spend all summer at her cottage, but I was more than welcome to join her. I’d never even heard of Silver Bay, but I immediately asked if she could buy me a bus ticket. She said of course. I didn’t bother telling Mom and Dad. I packed my bag and hid it in my closet, and two weeks later, before the final school bell had even rung, I was on the bus.

That summer was, for the most part—right up until the end—the best summer of my life. And even after the events that sent me scurrying home, here in Emma’s cottage I felt like my best self. When I was here, I felt as if I still had a future. Like maybe I could become someone like Emma, instead of people like my parents.

And that’s all I had to hang onto, for now.

2

DYLAN

Dylan Romano switched off the engine and eyed the rain-soaked street beyond. We’re here, he said, turning to his sister in the passenger seat. Obviously, he added with a smile.

Thanks for driving me, Ingrid replied. I couldn’t face riding with Mom and Dad.

Of course.

Dylan eyed his father’s SUV, parked at an obnoxious angle in the driveway. Had he done that on purpose? So no one could park near his precious car? Dylan shook his head. A thoughtless mistake or an intentional power move, it didn’t even matter. As a kid, he’d worshipped his father. But the dad-adoration haze had lifted during high school and pretty much disappeared since he’d started college. Now, he had to carry the awareness that his dad was kind of an asshole and maybe worse. It sat like a weight on his shoulders, sharp edges sometimes pressing into his flesh. How he’d get through an entire summer in the same house as him, he had no clue. But Dylan had two undeniable reasons to come to Silver Bay. Staying away wasn’t an option. He looked over at Ingrid, hunched and small in her seat: reason number one. His chest grew tight as he took in her fragile, defensive posture. Seeming to feel his gaze on her, she turned to him and pulled back the hood of her oversized sweatshirt.

He nodded at her shorn head, smiling. You’ll need a trim soon.

Ingrid raised a self-conscious hand.

Sorry, Dylan said, wincing at her brittle expression. I sometimes forget I’m not hilarious.

His mom had called him the moment Ingrid had done it—mere seconds after she’d flung open the bathroom door, scattering the pile of dark hair clippings across the tiles.

Why did she shave her head? his mother had demanded, as if Dylan, living on campus and in the middle of prepping for finals, might know. Maybe she wanted a change, he’d replied.

"Dylan." She’d sounded pissed, but he could hear the worry in her voice.

No idea, Mom, he’d answered honestly, brushing off her questions, not wanting to speculate. But after they disconnected, he’d asked himself the same thing. When he’d taken the question to Ingrid herself he’d learned the truth. Weeks later, he was still processing.

His gut clenched but released again as Ingrid gave him a small smile. She pulled up her hood and grabbed her backpack from between her feet. Come on. She hopped out of the car, running through the rain to the front door. As she waited under the eaves, Dylan retrieved the remaining bags from the trunk and jogged up the path too.

Are we ready? he asked, reaching for the doorknob.

Ingrid shrugged. I guess.

The door swung open. You’re here, their mother said, her eyes scanning their faces. Had she been waiting by the door?

They’d come to this Silver Bay cottage every single summer for seven years now, but this would probably be the last. Because things change. Because people had to move forward, otherwise they’d end up in a stagnant pile of crap. Like his mom. For the past six months he’d watched her wade through mud. At every visit home she seemed mired deeper in some sticky substance that wouldn’t let her go, not properly. Should he be trying to pull her out? Or was he himself the glue? Either way, he wasn’t sure she could get out on her own. At some point, did kids have to rescue their parents?

The weather is terrible. She stepped forward to kiss him on the cheek, then fiddled with his collar, turning it the right way up.

Hey, Mom. He ducked his chin and shrugged off her help.

She’d been surprised when he’d said he’d come with them this year, he could tell. Probably because last year he’d announced that he was too old for this shit, and a few months ago he’d reiterated his plan to stay on campus for summer. But things had changed since then.

He watched his mother turn anxious eyes to his sister, her gaze flitting from Ingrid’s hair to the baggy jeans and sweatshirt she wore even though the evening was warm.

Ingrid, honey. How are—

Same rooms? She clutched her backpack, knuckles white, eyes large but expressionless.

The Mackies aren’t here yet. Up to you.

They’d shared this six bedroom house with the Mackie family every summer, but the kid Henry was four years younger than Ingrid and kind of weird, so neither Dylan nor Ingrid had ever really connected with him. As kids they’d all been happy to be packed off to play at the lake together, with the two families barbecuing most nights. But in recent years, as everyone got older—and life got more complicated—this vacation had started to make less sense.

Ingrid turned to Dylan.

You pick, he said with a small smile.

Ingrid, sweetheart, those jeans… aren’t you—

Don’t tell me what to wear, Ingrid hissed at her mother, hurrying down the hall.

What’s—

Mom, he cut her off, but softened his tone. There’s a thing tonight. I’ll go, if…? He raised his voice as if asking her permission. But he wasn’t. At least, not about going to a party. At nineteen and living away from home he no longer needed to. No, the reason for telling his mother he wouldn’t be home tonight was Ingrid. His summer break from college had only just begun, but they’d already developed an understanding. If his mother went out for an evening, then Dylan would stay home.

Of course, you go, she said, the strain in her voice audible.

Dylan suddenly became aware of the absence of stomping footsteps and slamming doors.

Where’s Dad?

Something crossed his mother’s face, changing her eyes. Went for a run. Stiff from the drive.

It’s raining. He frowned.

Dinner with everyone tomorrow night, okay? His mother forced a smile.

After a moment, Dylan did the same. Sure.

In her room, Ingrid was already unpacking, methodically removing clothes from the suitcase to set neatly on the bed as if they required organizing before they could be put away.

I’ll take a shower then head out, okay? he said. Ingrid looked up and nodded, her expression hard to read. You definitely don’t want to come? he added.

She shook her head quickly, urgently.

What are you going to do? he asked.

Movie.

Yeah? Which one?