The Killer Focus That Almost Killed Me: Dangerous Distractions: The Jack Bardot Mysteries, #1

By Margot Drew Delaney

Three lakefront cottages.

Two deadly secrets.

And one grad student who can't mind her own business.

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Anthropology student Jack Bardot has sequestered herself away in a lakefront cottage to finish her PhD without distractions.

 

But when she realizes she has not one but two sets of vacation neighbors, her semi-professional thirst for people-watching overrules her good sense and she abandons her dissertation to indulge in her favorite activity. And while the dark-haired woman in the house to the left looks familiar, it's the behavior of the Instagram Influencer couple on the right that gets her attention.

 

At least, at first.

 

As she ramps up her surveillance, things take a worrying turn, and Jack realizes a little too late that her snooping has put her in real danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SWARM Publishing
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781991197160

Book preview

The Killer Focus That Almost Killed Me

Dangerous Distractions: A Jack Bardot 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) 978-1-9911971-6-0

ISBN (kindle) 978-1-9911971-7-7

The Killer Focus That Almost Killed Me 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, a different version of this novella was previously published as 'The Woman Next Door'.

Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Eight Years Ago

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

A small town murder mystery

Wild Hearts. Bad Intentions. Deadly Deeds.

A detective duo like no other

Prologue

Ilike to watch.

I’m nosy, inquisitive, meddlesome—whatever you want to call it. Not yet thirty so too young to be a busybody, maybe, but the game is the same. Gluing my eyeballs to other people’s business, sniffing out scandals and tuning my ears to the gossip channel is how I get my kicks. A curtain-twitcher, a rubbernecker, a stickybeak—a trainspotter with zero interest in trains.

I like to watch people.

The good, the bad, the messy and the ugly. The beautiful and the weird but also the mundane. All of it. Best show in the world.

Good thing it’s my profession: Anthropology. Or it will be once I get my doctorate. One month before my dissertation is due and I’m starting to sweat. Whatever, I’ll get there. For sure. I’m not panicking, not at all.

But it almost doesn’t matter whether I’m officially studying the way humans exist in the world. I’d be like this even if I wasn’t an academic. Because if you spend all your time observing, you usually get to see something. And sometimes it’s really fucking good. So until then I’ll do it for free. I like to watch and I’ve found my calling.

Curiosity hasn’t killed this cat. Yet.

One

JACK

Idrop my bags by the front door and cast my eyes around the cottage—lake house, vacation home, whatever you want to call it. A house on a lake, owned by someone with more money than me. Professor Slater, in this case. His summer escape but my prison for the next three weeks. Smallish and somewhat basic, at least compared to the two larger houses on either side, but definitely good enough for me. I move through the living room, glancing at the kitchen-dining room combo—standard setup—out to the lakefront patio to take in the view. The water glistens as a light breeze ripples across the surface. The lake is a literal stone’s throw away and I will be swimming while I’m here. It’s my one nod to physical exertion. Maybe because there’s no sweating. You can’t sweat if you’re already wet. It's more than that, though. Gliding through water is like a form of flying and why isn’t everyone obsessed?

My phone rings. Slater. I know even before I check the display.

Boss, I answer, already grinning because he hates it when I call him that.

"Jacqueline," he grumbles.

He’s vain about his age. Or I guess, worried about seeming young. He’s only around forty so he’s being a bit hysterical IMO. Maybe he simply doesn’t want to get old. Me, I can’t wait. Because the older you are the less people notice you (there are studies), and the more uninterrupted snooping you can do. There’s a reason Jessica Fletcher was such a good amateur sleuth.

Fine, I say. "Hello, Slater."

His preferred moniker.

"Hello, Jack."

Mine.

I was Jackie until about fifth grade and Jacqueline for one brief, dramatic (excruciating), identity-grasping period only—the summer I turned fourteen. Jack is the only name I suit; the only name I’ll respond to. Maybe it’s because I can never hope to compare to my namesake: Jacqueline Kennedy. What was my mother thinking, honestly. But she couldn’t have known how far from immaculately coiffed hair and graceful, understated beauty I’d turn out. A practical do, a blunt dispositional style, and a beak for other people’s business.

So what’s up? I say lightly, as if he’s called to simply catch up. To shoot the shit.

You’re all set?

I can hear the tension in his voice. What he wants to say is: You’re not going to let me down, are you?

Just got here. The place is epic. Thanks for hooking me up and yes, I’m all ready to go. The laptop is unpacked. (Lies.) I’m jumping in immediately. (The lake, maybe.) First thing on my agenda. No procrastinating. No waiting for a fresh day tomorrow. (More lies.)

There’s a loaded pause.

I’ll keep bugging you until I get chapters.

He knows me too well.

Got it, I say.

If I have to, I’ll show up there and breathe down your neck until it happens.

I go still.

Is that supposed to be a threat?

Slater clears his throat.

You know what I mean.

Another pause, this one nudging awkward.

There are no more extensions, Jack. This is it. You have to finish your dissertation and you have to do it before the end of the month.

A pulse of apprehension surfaces, nosing itself out of the water. I know. Honestly, I get it.

I’ve turned off the Wi-Fi.

"You fucker."

He laughs, a low chuckle. I mean business. You should too. And before you think you can rely on your phone, you’ll find it pretty patchy.

What if there’s an emergency?

Then you dial 9-1-1.

What if it’s not that much of an emergency.

You can call me.

What if I need to check a reference or look something up?

You’re final stages, Jack. Writing the intro, last edits, proofing. Etcetera. You shouldn’t need it. But I’ll turn it on at the end of the week. Once I get words from you. You’ll have one day of internet bliss, which you’ll have to use wisely, then it’s off again.

Fine.

Looking forward to those updated chapters.

Yeah. I mumble a sign-off and disconnect.

I cannot believe he turned off the internet.

I stalk to the kitchen, as if there might be a food solution, but the pantry only holds basic and boring foodstuffs. The fridge is similarly bare, so after checking the utensils, cooking equipment and spice situation (who am I kidding, I’ll be eating bread and ramen), I grab my bag and get back in