A dead teenager. An exclusive estate. A story someone wants buried.
A dead teenager. An exclusive estate. A story someone wants buried.
When Sudanese-Australian student Aro Chol is found dead on the rocks below the exclusive Chilton Hill estate, police call it a tragic accident. Some residents say he was trying to break in.
Local journalist Audrey Lord isn’t convinced. Aro was bright, hardworking, and determined to build a future — not someone who would throw everything away for a petty crime.
As Audrey digs deeper, she uncovers fractures beneath Chilton Hill’s polished surface: anxious neighbours, protected secrets, and a community desperate to control the story.
Everyone has a version of what happened that night.
And someone is willing to make sure Audrey never finds the truth.
The Stain is an Audrey Lord Mystery, perfect for readers who enjoy character-driven Australian crime fiction, small-town secrets, and socially charged suspense.
Prologue
The gulls came first. One, then two, then a frenzied mob, circling and shrieking as they landed on the rocks below. Sam Worthington noticed them as he stepped onto the balcony with his coffee, the early light flattening the ocean into silver-blue glass. The air was already too warm for autumn and the scent of salt and damp earth still clung to the breeze.
They were making a racket.
He frowned. Something had stirred them.
From Port Phillip Bay, Chilton Hill rose like a bell curve from the highway and the sprawl of Bennington, flattening enough at the top for a dozen luxury homes to perch in defiance of gravity. Sam’s house sat dead centre, commanding views of the city to the right, the Peninsula to the left, and open water ahead. The others envied him. Rightfully so.
The only thing the well-heeled residents of Chilton Hill shared with the working-class chaos below was a postcode. Down in Bennington, they dealt with drugs, robberies, and the occasional serial killer. But here, there were other threats.
Erosion, for one.
The cliff edge, sandy clay and ancient rock, laced with slate and quartz, was known to shift. Vegetation covered the bluff like a nervous comb-over, but the truth gnawed beneath. One day, Sam suspected, part of this hill would shear off and collapse into the bay. He hoped he’d be long gone by then.
He glanced again at the gulls, flapping and shrieking. His gut prickled.
Behind him, the sliding door rasped open. Mary stepped out with two coffees, her bare feet whispering against the tiles.
“Here you go,” she said, handing him the long black.
Even after all these years, she took his breath away. His mother once called her Jackie O. His father muttered “out of your league” for years.
“I never tire of this view,” Mary said, sipping hers.
Neither did Sam. Though lately, the view unsettled him. Something about its vastness. Its fragility.
Mary leaned on the railing, squinting toward the rocks. “What’s going on down there?”
“Seagulls,” he said. “Probably found some bread.”
“They’re making a fuss. More than usual.”
“They always do. Come inside. I was thinking breakfast in the village?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed fixed on the rocks. “I’ve never seen that many seagulls, Sam.”
He joined her. The sun glared off the water.
Then he saw it—a smear of colour beneath the birds. A white blur drifting past, caught in the tide.
Mary gasped. “Is that—? Sam! Is that blood?”
She pointed, her voice sharp now. “There’s someone down there!”
Sam followed her finger. At first, it didn’t register.
Then it did.
A dark shape, sprawled on the rocks. Face down. A charcoal hoodie. Track pants. Black runners with a blue stripe. The stain beside him marooned the granite.
The boy wasn’t moving.
“It’s a kid,” Mary whispered. “A teenager, maybe. Oh my God.”
She turned and rushed inside, already calling the police.
Sam didn’t move.
He stared at the boy’s neck, his arms splayed unnaturally. His mind ticked through the only answer that made sense.
A break-in. One of those gangs on the news. Tried to escape and fell.
It had to be that.
Didn’t it?