A Book A Week

October is here at last, and with it comes my annual dive into spooky reads. It doesn’t quite feel like fall in South Texas yet—the summer heat still hasn’t gotten the memo—but I’m determined to will the season into existence. Horror is a genre I enjoy all year, but when October arrives, my reading appetite shifts into overdrive. That’s why I was thrilled when the kind folks at Macmillan Audio sent me a copy of Sarah Gailey’s latest novel, Spread Me. It turned out to be the perfect book to kick off my spooky season.

Kinsey has been content leading a team of researchers at a remote desert outpost, far removed from the pull of civilization. For her, isolation is freedom, a life stripped of distraction and temptation. But everything changes when the team uncovers a strange specimen buried beneath the sand. Against protocol, Kinsey breaks quarantine to bring it into the facility. From that moment on, her carefully ordered world begins to fracture. The specimen exerts a pull she can’t explain, and the temptations she thought she’d left behind return with a force that can’t be ignored.

Spread Me finds Sarah Gailey leaning into body horror, temptation, and a strain of strange eroticism. At times, it reminded me of the film Splice, where a scientist develops an unhealthy attachment to their creation. The story can be cringe-inducing, silly, and even a bit over the top—but I couldn’t stop listening. Gailey writes with an urgency as infectious as the viral specimen at the heart of the novel. Is this highbrow, intellectual horror? Not at all. But it never pretends to be. Spread Me is pulpy, B-movie–esque horror that managed to both entertain and repulse me, which feels like the perfect way to kick off a month of spooky reads.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2025, 76)

What can we know? The answer depends, of course, on what it means to truly know something. History’s greatest thinkers have wrestled with these questions, circling the very foundations of existence. To that list we can now add author Ian McEwan. Best known for his modern classic Atonement, McEwan’s body of work reflects the eclectic interests of a writer as skilled at spinning a story as he is at probing life’s most profound questions. I’ve read Atonement and a handful of his other novels, though not as many as I’d like, so when his publisher offered me a copy of his newest work, fittingly titled What We Can Know, I was eager to dive in. Could McEwan shape such a lofty question into a novel? Could he balance philosophy with the intimacy of the human experience?

The novel is a work of historical fiction, though the history in question is less about the distant past and more about our present moment. The year is 2119, and academic Thomas Metcalfe devotes his research to understanding life in the early 21st century. For us, that means the familiar ground of the mid-2010s. But for Thomas, it’s a vanished world, long reshaped by climate change, war, AI, and illness. While his society exalts science and technology, Thomas insists that the true lessons of humanity endure in the arts. His obsession centers on a vanished work of poetry. The poem in question is A Corona for Vivien, a sequence of ten sonnets as famous for its mystery as for its beauty.

The poem was first recited in 2014 by poet Francis Blundy, performed as a birthday gift for his wife, Vivien, at a dinner party among friends. The only written copy was entrusted to Vivien herself, but it disappeared soon after and was never published or preserved. History remembers it only through the recollections of those who witnessed its fleeting debut. Determined to unravel its fate, Thomas begins digging into the lives of the dinner party’s guests, uncovering secrets of love, rivalry, and betrayal. As he delves deeper, he inches closer to the truth, not only of the lost poem but of the hidden meanings and fragile humanity it may still carry across the centuries.

If my attempt at summarizing What We Can Know feels scattered, that’s only because the novel itself is vast and sprawling, brimming with big ideas that resist neat categorization. At times I was captivated, at others overwhelmed, sometimes both within the same few pages. The story is anchored by a simple quest for a missing poem, yet that search opens into a sweeping meditation on memory, knowledge, and legacy. McEwan reminds us how much of what we believe about the past is filtered, distorted, or lost, even as our access to information has never been greater.

The further I read, the more demanding the novel became, but that rigor felt intentional. Its characters are layered, flawed, and often difficult to like. Its plot sprawls, loops, and challenges the reader to keep up. But beneath that complexity lies McEwan’s central theme. What we can know will always be colored by the subjectivity of the people doing the knowing. Life is messy, sometimes tragic, and unpredictable, but it's shaped by our unshakable drive to learn, remember, and seek meaning. That desire, McEwan suggests, is what defines us, and perhaps what allows a fragile sense of optimism to endure. In the end, What We Can Know reminds us that knowledge is never absolute, but the act of seeking it is what makes us human. 

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2025, 75)

I was reluctant to give in to the hype surrounding Suzanne Collins's Hunger Games series when it first came out. At the time, I was in college and admittedly felt a bit above the YA craze, especially when every dystopian release was being hailed as “the next big thing.” But once I finally picked up the books, I was hooked. Despite some qualms with the storytelling, I was drawn in by the fast-paced plot and the deeper themes of political unrest, propaganda, and control. Reflecting on them now, Collins’s once speculative fiction feels eerily relevant to our own world. 

That’s why I was curious when Sunrise on the Reaping, a new prequel to the trilogy, was announced. Did we really need another installment when the original books ended so neatly? To my surprise, the answer is yes. Not only does Collins expand the mythology of Panem in meaningful ways, but the events of this novel now feel uncannily timely. It makes the series resonate in a way that feels both fresh and unsettling.

In celebration of the 50th Hunger Games, the Capitol announces a brutal twist. Twice as many tributes will be selected from each district. For Haymitch Abernathy of District 12, the Reaping also falls on his sixteenth birthday. He tries to push the dread aside, hoping the day will pass so he can return to the simple comfort of being with Lenore Dove, the girl he loves. But survival, as he quickly learns, isn't so easy. 

From the start, political unrest simmers beneath the surface. The first Reaping descends into chaos, an eruption of violence that the Capitol swiftly erases from memory by staging a second, sanitized drawing. This time, Haymitch’s name is chosen. It becomes clear that the Capitol intends to script these Games for their own purposes, but Haymitch refuses to play the role they’ve written for him. If he’s destined to die, he’ll do so on his own terms, and perhaps leave behind a spark capable of exposing the cracks in the Capitol’s carefully maintained facade.

Sunrise on the Reaping might just be the strongest installment in the Hunger Games series. The familiar structure is all here. There's the Reaping, the Capitol training, the brutality of the arena, and the crowning of a victor. But Collins adds a new layer of depth that elevates this novel beyond its predecessors. We already know the outcome. Haymitch will win. His survival was predetermined by the original trilogy. That inevitability frees Collins to craft a story that is sharper, more emotionally resonant, and devastating in its execution. The result is a book that feels at once familiar and startlingly fresh. Sunrise on the Reaping is more mature, more urgent, and ultimately, the most powerful entry in the series.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2025, 74)

As the month winds down, I wrapped up another pick from my mystery/thriller book club, Alice Feeney’s 2022 novel Daisy Darker. This group has consistently delivered great reads over the last several months, so I was eager to dive into our latest selection. When the vote landed on Feeney, I was especially excited. I’ve enjoyed several of her other books, but Daisy Darker had been languishing on my TBR pile for far too long. Now I finally had the perfect reason to crack it open.

Daisy Darker is a walking miracle. Or at least that’s what she tells herself. Born with a rare heart condition, she wasn’t supposed to live this long, and her childhood was marked by countless brushes with death and endless surgeries. Maybe because of that shortened life expectancy, her family never seemed to invest much care in her. Truth be told, they barely cared for one another. The only person who truly saw Daisy was her grandmother. So when Nana summons the family to her crumbling gothic manor on the eve of her 80th birthday, Daisy doesn’t hesitate.

Years ago, a fortune teller predicted Nana would die at 80, and she intends to mark the occasion by gathering her fractured family and reading her last will and testament. The manor sits on a remote island, cut off completely when the tide rolls in, ensuring no one can leave until morning. Each relative arrives with selfish motives, all angling for a share of Nana’s fortune. Daisy alone comes with pure intentions. But when midnight strikes, Nana is found dead. Found with the body is a haunting poem that names each family member in turn. With every passing hour, another body falls. Trapped on the island with a killer picking them off one by one, the Darkers must reckon not only with the murders unfolding around them but with the secrets they’ve buried for years.

In the acknowledgements at the end of the novel, Alice Feeney proclaims that Daisy Darker is her favorite of her works, and it’s easy to see why. Drawing clear inspiration from Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None, Feeney crafts her own distinct, eerie take on the classic setup. As the bodies begin to fall, we’re given not only the tension of a ticking clock but also slow, revealing glimpses into each character’s past and what drives them. It’s a deliberate slow burn, but the built-in rhythm of a new death on the hour keeps the suspense simmering.

What makes the novel especially effective is the balance between atmosphere and storytelling. This isn’t just a locked-room mystery. It’s a locked-island puzzle box, dripping with gothic dread and family dysfunction. I found myself completely hooked from start to finish, pulled along by both the creeping inevitability of the deaths and the secrets that steadily rise to the surface. And that twist at the end? Let’s just say it’s the kind of surprise that reminds you why Feeney is so good at what she does. You won’t see it coming. 

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2025, 73)

When Morgan Richter’s publisher first offered me a copy of her latest thriller set in the world of classical opera, I’ll admit I had a hard time picturing how that setting could fuel suspense. When most people think of opera, they imagine a stuffy concert hall, audiences in black tie, long arias in foreign languages, and an orchestra tucked beneath the stage. Or maybe they picture Bugs Bunny. What they probably don’t imagine is the high-stakes competitiveness simmering behind the curtain. Having worked in the classical music world, I can attest that the passion to create something unforgettable and to leave your mark is undeniable. Sometimes that passion blossoms into rivalry. And on rare occasions, it hardens into obsession. It’s from this very real world that Richter draws inspiration for her new thriller, The Understudy. 

Kit has spent years honing her craft as an opera singer, pouring countless hours into perfecting her voice. But the breakout role she’s dreamed of has never materialized. Instead, she’s toiled away in ensemble parts across New York City, where it’s notoriously difficult to stand out. Opera companies are spoiled for choice, with centuries-old works demanding the best of the best. And with audiences dwindling and finances shrinking, directors are rarely willing to gamble on a newcomer when seasoned performers are waiting in the wings.

That’s why Kit is thrilled when she’s finally cast in a brand-new opera based on the 1960s cult film Barbarella. It’s not the role she imagined for herself—she’s never been known for her sex appeal—but originating a lead part in a new work could catapult her career. There’s just one problem. Well, two. First, despite Kit’s flawless technique, the director seems unconvinced she’s right for the role. And second, there’s her understudy, Yolanda. Beautiful, bold, and brimming with confidence, Yolanda embodies everything Barbarella is supposed to be, even if her singing is far less polished. At first, Kit tries to outwork her rival, but when Yolanda makes it clear she plans to steal the spotlight, Kit realizes she’s facing more than artistic competition. As rehearsals intensify, it becomes clear that Yolanda will stop at nothing to claim center stage.

In The Understudy, Morgan Richter pulls readers behind the curtain of an opera production, revealing the tense, high-stakes drama simmering in this world. The reality for many in classical music is sobering. Audiences are shrinking, funding is dwindling, and the art form itself feels increasingly on the verge of obsolescence. Richter seizes on this truth, weaving it into the inner struggles of her characters, who push themselves to excel in a space that seems to be slipping away. That backdrop of decline adds an extra layer of urgency and desperation to every moment.

As the story progresses, Richter gradually turns up the darkness. The lengths to which Yolanda is willing to go to secure the starring role seem boundless. Or are they simply projections of Kit’s spiraling paranoia? The line between reality and obsession blurs, pulling the reader deeper into Kit’s unraveling perspective. The result feels like a classical-opera take on Black Swan, but with Richter’s sharp character work giving even the supporting cast depth and dimension. It’s a gripping mix of psychological tension and character study that kept me riveted from the first rehearsal to the final curtain.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads.

(2025, 72)

Like clockwork, each summer Riley Sager releases a new standalone thriller. While he’s made his name with horror-tinged novels like Lock Every Door and Home Before Dark, he’s never been afraid to push into new territory. This year’s release, With a Vengeance, may be his boldest departure yet. Instead of haunted apartments or eerie estates, Sager gives us a classic locked-room mystery in the style of Agatha Christie, set in the 1950s, aboard a train hurtling down the tracks, where a murder leaves every passenger a suspect. It’s a familiar setup, but one I couldn’t wait to see Sager twist into something of his own.

Anna Matheson has been seeking justice for her family ever since six individuals destroyed their lives back in 1942. Justice, of course, is never easily won. For twelve years, Anna has been carefully plotting her revenge, and tonight her plan finally comes into motion. She’s lured those responsible onto a luxury train bound from Philadelphia to Chicago, an overnight journey with no escape. Once trapped together, she believes they’ll have no choice but to confess, and when the train pulls into the station, the authorities will be waiting.

But the best-laid plans rarely hold. A murder aboard the train threatens to derail everything. Someone else is on board, and they're pursuing their own brand of revenge. The first victim is only the beginning. Suddenly, Anna finds herself in an unthinkable position protecting the very people she despises, all while racing to unmask a killer. After all, she can’t have her vengeance if her enemies die before they confess.

With a Vengeance feels like the most straightforward mystery Riley Sager has ever written, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. I’ve come to expect original plots from him, filled with wild twists and at least a touch of the spooky or supernatural. While there are some clever reveals here, much of the story feels a bit too familiar. I also never fully connected with Anna as a main character. With nearly everyone else on the train painted as awful people, it was tough to root for anyone.

Maybe I’m being too picky. I do admire that Sager refuses to repeat himself, and with that approach, it makes sense that I’ll enjoy some of his books more than others. Taken on its own, With a Vengeance is a respectful homage to a bygone era of mystery writing. It didn’t thrill me in the same way some of his other novels have, but it’s still a perfectly fine, classic-feeling whodunit.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2025, 71)