A Book A Week

I often find myself thinking about the fact that, as an avid reader, there’s a surprising number of authors I’m aware of but have never actually read. Louise Penny, J.A. Jance, James Lee Burke—the list goes on and on. Over the years, I’ve made a point to chip away at that list, and in several cases, I’ve discovered new favorites in the process.

Like many thriller fans, I first became aware of Taylor Adams when his debut novel, No Exit, burst onto the scene and blew readers away. For whatever reason, though, I never picked it up. So when I came across Adams’s newest novel, Her Last Breath, I knew it was the perfect opportunity to finally experience his work for myself. As is so often the case in these situations, I couldn’t help but kick myself for not reading him sooner.

Best friends Allie and Tess were thick as thieves through high school, but their lives took very different paths after graduation. Allie has always been the adventurous one—kind, beautiful, outgoing. She’s built a career as an influencer, documenting her globe-spanning travels for an eager audience. Tess, on the other hand, is far more risk-averse. She works as a lawyer, buried under student loans and long hours, safely tucked inside an office while watching Allie’s adventures unfold from afar.

For years, Allie has begged Tess to join her on a caving expedition, and for years Tess has found excuse after excuse to decline. This time, though, she runs out of both excuses and better judgment, finally agreeing to go. The two women arrive at the remote Devil’s Staircase, a cave system notorious for challenging even seasoned explorers. Tess is uneasy from the start, but Allie reassures her. They have the proper equipment, and Allie’s boyfriend, Ethan, is on standby in case of emergency.

Still, something feels off. Parked near the cave’s entrance is the vehicle of a stranger who claims he’s there to monitor the bat population. But he isn’t who he says he is. When he harasses the women, Allie pushes back—and he retaliates. Soon Tess is left terrified, alone, and hunted in the dark, every one of her worst fears brought to life.

I seriously can’t believe I’ve never read anything by Taylor Adams before. If Her Last Breath is any indication of his ability to shock and thrill, I’ve truly been missing out. This book is tense, claustrophobic, and genuinely terrifying—and the deeper I got into it, the more relentless it became.

Adams writes with a straightforward, no-frills approach, carefully peeling back layers of what really happened as the story unfolds. I was hooked from the very first chapter. And just when I thought I had the truth figured out, another twist would send the narrative careening in a completely unexpected direction. This is thriller writing at its best. It's page-turning, suspenseful, twisted, and an absolute blast to read.

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

(2026, 14)

Mass Mothering is the first book I’ve read this year that feels truly original. I haven’t encountered anything quite like it. Sarah Bruni introduces us to A., a woman living in a city that doesn’t feel like her own, in a body that feels even less so. An amateur translator, she has undergone a medical procedure to remove her reproductive organs. The operations left her physically diminished and financially strained. By day, A. works as a nanny to a young boy. By night, she disappears into clubs, dancing as if she can outrun whatever fragments of herself remain. It’s in one of these clubs that she meets a man known only as N., who seems to exist in a similar state of suspension. The two begin to connect, drawn together by their shared sense of displacement.

One evening, among N.’s sparse belongings, A. discovers a slim volume titled Field Notes. The book recounts a distant town where boys have vanished, and the mothers left behind gather in communal mourning. It's raw, collective, and strangely powerful. A. becomes captivated by these women, by their near-mythic resilience and the way they sustain one another through the unbearable. On impulse, she travels to the city where Field Notes was written, determined to find its author and the missing conclusion to his story. Instead, her search leads her to the traces of a murdered poet—a mysterious woman whose legacy will intersect with A.’s life in ways that are both unexpected and transformative.

With Mass Mothering, Sarah Bruni delivers a subtle, introspective novel that grapples with weighty, complex themes. There’s an intentional juxtaposition in her approach that mirrors the way A. processes, or avoids, her own emotions. The communal grief and resilience depicted in Field Notes are experienced at a remove, filtered through text rather than lived reality. It’s not something A. is ready, or perhaps even able, to confront firsthand. She hasn’t granted herself permission to step fully into that depth of feeling.

While the themes Bruni explores are undeniably powerful, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of detachment from the characters and their emotions. That distance seems purposeful; we’re meant to inhabit the same suspended state A. occupies, hovering just outside of catharsis. Still, that very design kept me from fully immersing myself in the story. Mass Mothering ultimately mirrors its protagonist’s emotional displacement with striking precision, but in doing so, it left me feeling slightly removed from its emotional core.

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

(2026, 13)

There are good secrets, and there are bad secrets. But one thing is certain: everyone has secrets—especially in the Nazi-occupied French village Lucas DuBois calls home. Lucas secretly wishes for courage, though it has never come easily to him. The other boys at the orphanage tease him, and he aches for a chance to prove he’s braver than they think. He gets his first opportunity when he rescues a litter of kittens from a group of cruel boys and hides them away in an abandoned stable. There, he meets Alice, the daughter of a horse trainer who is secretly sheltering her family’s animal in the same space. She isn’t thrilled to find Lucas intruding, but she reluctantly agrees to let him keep the cats.

Before long, an uneasy alliance turns into friendship, and Lucas begins to notice the quiet network of secrets threading through the village. The housekeeper at the German maternity home and a priest at the orphanage exchange coded messages. A young mother risks everything to keep her baby from forced adoption. A neighbor may be hiding a Jewish family behind closed doors. Inspired by the small, dangerous acts of bravery unfolding around him, Lucas must decide how much he’s willing to risk, and whether he can finally become the hero he’s always wanted to be.

In The Lion’s Run, Sara Pennypacker uses the backdrop of World War II to tell an intimate coming-of-age story—one about finding your voice, discovering your courage, and recognizing the quiet acts of resistance that defined everyday defiance during the Nazi occupation. I was struck by how small and personal the story feels against such a vast, devastating chapter of history. It’s a reminder that even as the horrors of war unfold on a global scale, small acts of humanity still persist.

Of course, this period has been explored countless times in historical fiction, but Pennypacker’s tale feels both relevant and necessary. She captures the idea that bravery doesn’t always look grand or heroic; sometimes it’s found in the smallest, most private choices. If anything, it’s a poignant reminder that courage can take many forms—if we’re willing to step forward and act.

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

(2026, 12)

The Alex Cross series has been a mainstay on my reading list ever since I first picked up Mary, Mary as a high school student. For the better part of two decades, I’ve faithfully read each new installment—through the highs and the more questionable lows (I’m looking at you, BookShots). Beyond Patterson’s signature pacing and plot-burning style, I’ve always gravitated toward the Cross books because they were one of the few series he wrote without a co-author.

That all changed with 2023’s Cross Down, the first entry to bring in a collaborator and to shift some of the focus away from Alex himself to include the perspective of his longtime partner, John Sampson. I went in worried the quality might dip. Instead, it felt like a breath of fresh air, broadening the scope of the story in a way that was surprisingly welcome. So when Patterson’s publisher offered me a copy of the latest installment, Cross & Sampson, I jumped at the chance to dive back in.

Alex Cross and John Sampson have always worked best as a team. Best friends since childhood, they’ve built their careers on an unshakable trust, a bond that’s made them one of the most effective duos in the Washington, D.C., Police Department. But this time, circumstances pull them in different directions. Sampson remains in D.C., investigating what appears to be a terrorist attack after a bomb detonates on a crowded street with no group stepping forward to claim responsibility. Meanwhile, Alex and his wife Bree head to Chapel Hill for a case that hits far closer to home: Alex’s eldest son, Damon, has vanished. He’s stopped going to class, stopped answering calls, and even his girlfriend hasn’t heard from him in days. Wherever Damon is, Alex is determined to find him. For once, the two partners will have to rely on their instincts separately, working on independent angles in the hope that each can bring his case to a hard-won resolution.

Cross & Sampson sees James Patterson and Brian Sitts continue to expand the world of the Alex Cross series in a way that feels both true to the foundation Patterson has built over the better part of three decades while still pushing the characters into exciting new territory. All the hallmarks of the series are here. The pacing is as quick as ever, the mysteries hook you from the start, and the action is grounded by character moments that raise the emotional stakes.

Thirty-five books in, these characters feel like old friends, and part of the joy is watching their lives evolve alongside the investigations. Writing chapters from John Sampson’s perspective gives us the chance to connect with him more deeply. We see his relationship with his daughter, the strain after a proposal gone wrong, and his fierce loyalty to the Cross family. Patterson and Sitts balance this personal growth with sharp plotting, using shifting perspectives and short, cliffhanger chapters to keep the suspense high and the pages turning. The result is another strong, fast-paced entry in a long-running series that still knows how to entertain. It leaves me more than happy to keep following Cross and Sampson wherever the next case takes them.

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

(2026, 11)

There’s nothing a mother won’t do to protect her child. For single mom Jenna, that means traveling from London to the remote shores of Athelsea in search of her teenage daughter, Chloe. Jenna knows Chloe was struggling after the divorce. If she’s honest, her daughter had been struggling long before that, but the changes of the past few weeks felt different. Chloe seemed withdrawn, almost haunted. When Jenna discovers a ferry ticket to Athelsea, it’s the only lead she has, and she clings to it.

The village itself offers little comfort. As Jenna searches for answers, she’s met with lingering stares and hushed conversations that abruptly stop when she draws near. Everyone seems to know something, but no one is willing to say it outright. Her desperation finally yields a name whispered with unease: the Bone Queen. At first, Jenna dismisses it as nothing more than a local legend, a story meant to frighten outsiders and children alike.

But the fear etched into the villagers’ faces tells a different story. As Jenna learns about the deaths and disappearances that have plagued Athelsea for decades, her certainty begins to erode. The line between folklore and reality grows thinner, paranoia creeping in where logic once held firm. And as her grip on reality starts to slip, Jenna realizes there’s no line she won’t cross to protect her daughter, especially if the Bone Queen is real.

Will Shindler makes his horror debut with a terrifying missing-person story that immediately got under my skin. He blends the procedural pull of an investigation with folkloric legend and richly drawn characters, creating a page-turner that feels grounded even as the uncanny begins to seep in. The Bone Queen is unsettling precisely because it dares readers to question what, if anything, can truly be believed. That lingering sense of possibility worms its way into your thoughts, forcing you to confront horrors that may or may not be real.

Yes, there’s plenty of overt creepiness on the page, but the novel’s real power lies in how quietly it gets under your skin, how your own imagination begins to do some of the work for it. I was glued to every page, unable to stop reading even as the sense of dread steadily intensified. It all builds to an ending that feels satisfying yet unsettling—one that leaves you wondering whether the story is truly over, or if something far more sinister still lies in waiting just out of sight.

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

(2026, 10)

Jennette McCurdy took the literary world by storm with the 2022 release of her memoir I’m Glad My Mom Died. The former child star blended dark humor, a matter-of-fact writing style, and clear-eyed reflection on the traumas of her upbringing to tell her story in a way that captured the attention of both fans and casual readers alike. While I didn’t read the memoir myself, I was certainly aware of the cultural moment it became. So when I was offered a copy of McCurdy’s debut novel, Half His Age, I was curious to see whether that distinctive voice would translate successfully into fiction.

Seventeen-year-old Waldo has always had to fend for herself. Raised by a teenage mother trapped in a cycle of unemployment, addiction, and a revolving door of deadbeat boyfriends, Waldo has learned to survive by keeping her head down and her expectations low. She goes to school, works a dead-end job, and does her best to pass for normal. Money is scarce, her wardrobe is threadbare, and even basic self-care feels like a luxury. But she makes do.

When we first meet her, Waldo is going through the motions of an unfulfilling relationship with her high school boyfriend, more focused on the mechanics of intimacy than any real connection. It’s not satisfying, but it’s familiar. This, for better or worse, is the shape of her life. Waldo doesn’t dream of something more, because she’s never been given reason to believe more is possible.

That begins to change when she meets Mr. Korgy. For the first time, Waldo allows herself to imagine a different future. Korgy is a middle-aged creative writing teacher with a wife, a child, and the lingering disappointment of an abandoned writing career. Teaching was never the dream, but it’s where he landed. Waldo is immediately drawn to him. He’s attentive, candid, and challenges her to be just as honest on the page.

She can’t quite explain the pull, only that he represents everything absent from her world: experience, confidence, intellectual passion. Most of all, he seems to truly see her and to like what he sees. Waldo knows her feelings cross a line, but desire rarely obeys reason. And as her fixation deepens, she begins to suspect that Mr. Korgy’s interest might extend beyond the classroom as well.

Half His Age marks Jennette McCurdy’s fiction debut as bold, unflinching, and undeniably compelling. She writes with a plain, matter-of-fact directness that makes the novel a page-turner, even as its subject matter grows increasingly uncomfortable. It’s spare, unsentimental prose that refuses to soften the edges of what it’s depicting, and that restraint is part of what makes the book so effective.

It’s best to address the elephant in the room upfront. This is a novel centered on an inappropriate relationship between a teacher and his student, complete with explicit sexual encounters and clear emotional grooming. There are many moments that are difficult to stomach, so this will not be a book for every reader. The story's trajectory feels grimly familiar, and the impending disaster is visible from miles away.

That said, McCurdy resists turning the story into something simplistic or purely moralistic. Waldo is unmistakably a victim, but her history of neglect and instability distorts her understanding of what love, attention, and agency look like, leading her to actively yearn for the relationship she’s being exploited by. Korgy, meanwhile, is fully complicit, his shame and personal disappointment creating a hollow rationalization for behavior he knows is wrong. Together, they form a dynamic that is repellent and tragic in equal measure. It all left me deeply unsettled, particularly on Waldo’s behalf.

I hesitate to say that I enjoyed Half His Age, but I did appreciate what it tries to be. While the story itself feels well-trodden, McCurdy’s voice is clear, confident, and purposeful. This is sure to be a divisive debut that will provoke strong reactions on both sides. Even so, McCurdy’s transition to fiction is impressive. She's chosen not to take the easy approach to her writing, and that's got me curious to see where this journey will take her next. 

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

(2026, 9)