There’s something uniquely unsettling about receiving a WhatsApp message from someone who died a year ago. L.M. Chilton’s sophomore thriller, Everyone in the Group Chat Dies, opens with this exact premise, plunging readers into a darkly comedic murder mystery that dissects our obsession with true crime, the toxicity of social media sleuthing, and the secrets buried in forgotten English towns. Following his debut Don’t Swipe Right, Chilton returns with a novel that’s sharper, bleaker, and considerably more ambitious in its critique of digital-age narcissism.
Kirby Cornell—a failed London journalist now relegated to writing about potholes for The Crowhurst Gazette—thought she’d left the worst behind her. But when her former flatmate Esme Goodwin’s account springs back to life with a chilling threat, Kirby finds herself entangled in a nightmare that bridges past and present. As her remaining flatmates—the so-called Deadbeats—start dying in increasingly disturbing ways, Kirby must confront the terrible secret they’ve all been keeping since Esme’s death.
The Anatomy of a Small-Town Nightmare
Chilton’s Crowhurst is a masterclass in atmospheric world-building. This sleepy Surrey town, famous only for a retired footballer and a 1990s killing spree, becomes a character in its own right—simultaneously mundane and menacing. The author captures the peculiar British phenomenon of places that time forgot, where economic decline festers beneath quaint facades and local traditions mask darker impulses. The annual Crawe Fayre, with its sinister Jack Daw figure, provides a brilliantly macabre backdrop that Chilton exploits to full effect.
The novel’s structure alternates between “Twelve Months Ago” and “Present Day,” a device that initially feels conventional but proves essential to Chilton’s narrative strategy. Through this dual timeline, we witness both the events leading to Esme’s death and Kirby’s desperate present-day attempts to survive. This construction allows Chilton to deploy information strategically, revealing character motivations and plot developments with calculated precision. However, the constant time-hopping occasionally disrupts momentum, particularly in the middle section where the past timeline threatens to overshadow the present’s urgency.
Character Dynamics: Flatmates, Secrets, and Lies
Where Chilton truly excels is in rendering the toxic dynamics of flatmate culture. The Deadbeats feel authentic in their dysfunction: Dylan, the brooding chef with daddy issues; Dave, whose irritating quirks somehow make him endearing; Seema, caught between ambition and circumstances; and Kirby herself, sharp-tongued but fundamentally insecure. Their banter crackles with genuine wit, peppered with the kind of casual cruelty that marks real friendships.
Esme Goodwin emerges as the novel’s most complex creation—part influencer, part detective, entirely unreliable. Chilton portrays her ShowMe videos (a thinly veiled TikTok analogue) with uncomfortable accuracy, capturing how true-crime content creators commodify tragedy while positioning themselves as crusaders for justice. The “Watsons”—Esme’s army of online followers—serve as a Greek chorus of amateur sleuths, their crowdsourced investigation both helping and hindering the mystery’s resolution.
Yet Kirby, our narrator, proves less developed than the narrative demands. Her voice remains consistently entertaining, but her character arc feels incomplete. The revelation about her famous father and her previous journalism failure provides backstory without depth. We understand why she fled London, but never quite grasp who she is beyond her failures and fears.
The Mystery’s Architecture: Twists, Turns, and Reveals
Chilton demonstrates genuine skill in misdirection. The central mystery—who’s killing the Deadbeats and why—unfolds through a series of revelations that mostly land effectively. The Peter Doyle backstory, involving the original 1996 murders, interweaves cleverly with the present-day killings. When Trevor, Kirby’s editor and father figure, is revealed as the original Crowhurst Killer, the twist feels both shocking and inevitable. Chilton plants clues throughout—Trevor’s earplugs, his obsession with local journalism’s importance, his presence in archived photos—but never telegraphs the reveal.
However, the book’s final act stumbles slightly under the weight of its ambitions. The confrontation at the printing press, while atmospheric, relies heavily on exposition dumps as Trevor explains his decades-long scheme. His motivation—reviving Crowhurst’s notoriety to save local journalism—is simultaneously compelling and unconvincing. The thematic link between community cohesion and manufactured tragedy could have been more elegantly explored rather than explicitly stated through villain monologue.
The resolution also asks readers to accept considerable coincidence: that Dylan happens to be Peter Doyle’s son, that Kirby’s father was involved in a TV project about the murders, that all these threads converge in one fateful summer. While genre conventions permit some contrivance, the cumulative effect strains credibility.
Social Commentary: Likes, Followers, and Death
Beyond the mystery mechanics, Chilton offers sharp commentary on contemporary digital culture. The novel eviscerates true-crime fandom’s darker impulses—the way tragedy becomes content, victims become plotlines, and amateur detectives believe themselves qualified to solve cases professionals cannot. Esme’s elaborate hoax, staging her own disappearance for views and followers, represents social media narcissism at its most grotesque. Yet Chilton avoids simplistic condemnation; Esme remains sympathetic even as she manipulates everyone around her.
The tension between local and digital journalism provides another rich thematic vein. Trevor’s devotion to The Gazette—his belief that communities need shared narratives and local accountability—contrasts with Surreywide’s clickbait listicles and vanishing credibility. Chilton, himself a journalist, writes with insider knowledge about how economic pressures hollow out local newsrooms. That Trevor commits murder to preserve Crowhurst’s notoriety gives these observations a bitter ironic edge.
Prose Style: Sharp Wit Meets Dark Humor
Chilton’s prose is the novel’s greatest strength. His dialogue sparkles with sardonic humor, capturing millennial communication patterns without feeling dated or forced. The narrative voice maintains perfect pitch throughout—self-deprecating without being cloying, observant without seeming detached. Cultural references feel organic rather than shoehorned: Ghost Detectives UK, Fitbit step counts, the eternal search for something to watch on Netflix.
The humor never undercuts the horror; instead, it makes the violence more shocking when it arrives. The scene where Kirby discovers Seema’s body in the dentist’s chair manages to be both darkly comic and genuinely disturbing. This tonal balance—matching laughs with legitimate scares—requires considerable skill, and Chilton mostly succeeds in walking that tightrope.
Occasionally, the writing defaults to contemporary thriller clichés: bodies described as “crumpled,” characters whose “blood runs cold,” moments when someone’s “heart soars.” These familiar phrases don’t derail the narrative but suggest Chilton might push his prose further in future works.
Critical Assessment: What Works and What Doesn’t
The novel’s pacing deserves particular praise. Chilton understands how to deploy cliffhangers effectively, ending chapters at moments of maximum tension. The group chat messages that punctuate the narrative create genuine unease, and the countdown element—knowing from the title that everyone must die—adds delicious dread to each interaction.
The supporting cast, however, remains somewhat underserved. Dave exists primarily for comic relief, his depth hinted at but never fully explored. Seema’s relationship with “Hot Dentist” feels like a running joke rather than genuine character development. Dylan receives the most substantial arc, but even his journey from mysterious chef to revealed legacy of the Crowhurst Killer could have used additional emotional excavation.
The romance subplot between Kirby and Dylan lacks chemistry. Their attraction feels asserted rather than demonstrated, and the revelation about Dylan’s parentage arrives before we’ve sufficiently invested in their relationship. This romantic element seems included more from genre obligation than narrative necessity.
Themes and Deeper Meanings
Beneath the thriller mechanics in Everyone in the Group Chat Dies, Chilton explores how communities construct and maintain identity through shared mythology. Crowhurst needs Peter Doyle—needs a bogeyman, a defining tragedy—to feel significant. This dependency on darkness for distinction extends to individuals: Kirby defines herself through failure, Dylan through his father’s shadow, Esme through manufactured mystery. The novel asks uncomfortable questions about what we’re willing to sacrifice—truth, ethics, lives—for relevance in an attention economy that rewards spectacle over substance.
The guilt the Deadbeats carry—their complicity in covering up Esme’s actual death—serves as metaphor for collective moral compromise. Each made a choice to protect themselves rather than serve justice, and that original sin returns to destroy them. Chilton suggests there’s no escaping consequences, that secrets don’t stay buried in the digital age where everything leaves traces.
Comparisons and Context
Readers who enjoyed Ruth Ware’s One by One or Lucy Foley’s The Guest List will find familiar pleasures here in Everyone in the Group Chat Dies—isolated settings, ensemble casts hiding secrets, mounting body counts. However, Chilton’s contemporary references and social media integration give the novel a distinctly modern flavor. The closest comparison might be Holly Jackson’s A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder series, which similarly explores amateur detection’s ethical complications, though Chilton writes for an older audience with considerably darker sensibilities.
For those familiar with Don’t Swipe Right, this second novel shows significant growth. While the debut focused on dating app culture’s superficiality, Everyone in the Group Chat Dies tackles weightier themes with more sophisticated plotting. The humor remains sharp, but the stakes feel genuinely high.
Final Verdict: A Clever Thriller with Minor Flaws
L.M. Chilton has crafted an entertaining thriller that successfully balances humor with horror, social commentary with suspense. While Everyone in the Group Chat Dies occasionally sacrifices character depth for plot mechanics and relies somewhat heavily on coincidence, its strengths far outweigh its weaknesses. The central mystery satisfies, the commentary on digital culture feels astute, and the prose consistently delights.
Everyone in the Group Chat Dies is a book perfectly calibrated for readers who want their thrillers sharp, contemporary, and self-aware—who can appreciate a mystery that both honors and subverts genre conventions. Chilton understands that the best modern thrillers must reckon with how technology has transformed both crime and detection, and he integrates these elements seamlessly into his narrative.
Not quite perfect, but thoroughly entertaining—a smart, swift read that delivers genuine surprises alongside its laughs. Chilton continues to establish himself as a thriller voice worth following.
Similar Reads Worth Exploring
If Everyone in the Group Chat Dies left you wanting more mysteries that blend dark humor with social commentary:
- The Appeal by Janice Hallett – Told entirely through emails and documents, examining amateur theatre group dynamics
- One of Us Is Lying by Karen M. McManus – High school murder mystery with multiple POVs and unreliable narrators
- They Never Learn by Layne Fargo – Dark academic thriller with revenge elements and sharp wit
- The Death of Mrs. Westaway by Ruth Ware – Gothic mystery featuring mistaken identity and family secrets
- Finlay Donovan Is Killing It by Elle Cosimano – Comedy-thriller about a crime writer accidentally involved in actual crime
