A Book A Week

I’m continuing my attempt to read more of the books I already own rather than constantly chasing the latest shiny new releases. This week, I turned my attention to a title that returned to my radar after it was adapted into a gripping series on Apple TV a couple of years ago. Scott Turow’s Presumed Innocent, his 1987 debut, was released to both critical and commercial acclaim, spawned a film adaptation starring Harrison Ford, and reignited the legal thriller genre for modern readers. When I dusted off my paperback copy and cracked it open, it didn’t take long to see why it became such a phenomenon.

The novel opens in the aftermath of a murder that has shaken the DA’s office in Kindle County to its core. One of their own—rising star prosecutor Carolyn Polhemus—has been killed, and now her colleagues must investigate her death and prosecute her killer. The timing couldn’t be worse. District Attorney Raymond Horgan is in the middle of a losing reelection campaign against Nico Della Guardia, a former protégé turned political rival. Della Guardia is already using the unsolved murder as ammunition, turning tragedy into campaign fodder.

Desperate to stop the bleeding, Horgan assigns his right-hand man, Rusty Sabich, to lead the investigation. What he doesn’t realize is just how personal the case is about to become.

Rusty and Carolyn shared a history that extended far beyond their professional roles. They were former lovers. Their affair ended months earlier, and Rusty returned to his wife, chastened and determined to move on. Conflict of interest aside, what should be a straightforward investigation quickly becomes anything but. Rusty is forced to navigate the wreckage of a relationship he thought he had neatly compartmentalized. As evidence mounts, buried secrets, office politics, and private betrayals rise to the surface. Before long, the seasoned prosecutor finds himself in an unthinkable position. He's the sole suspect in the murder of his former lover and colleague.

He swears he’s innocent. But as the trial unfolds, the question becomes not only who killed Carolyn, but whether anyone involved can truly be presumed innocent.

With Presumed Innocent, Scott Turow transforms the familiar courtroom thriller into an intimate and unsettling character study, tracing the slow, suffocating unraveling of reputation, marriage, ambition, and truth. The novel takes its time at the outset, carefully establishing its cast and their tangled relationships.  But once the investigation gains momentum, it pulls you in and refuses to let go.

I was especially impressed by how Turow makes us care about characters who so often teeter between ego and justice. I found myself rooting for Rusty even when I wasn’t entirely convinced of his innocence. That tension between belief and doubt drives the novel forward with remarkable force. By the end, it’s clear that innocence is anything but simple, and that truth can shift depending on who is claiming it.

The final revelation is as riveting as it is heartbreaking. It's not exactly a twist in the traditional sense, but a moral reckoning. With Presumed Innocent, Turow doesn’t merely set the standard for the modern legal thriller; he redefines what the genre is capable of.

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

(2026, 17)

She sits in the dark—cold, alone, afraid—waiting.

He used to open the door. He would bring her food, yes, but it was that brief slice of light she craved most. A reminder that the outside world still existed, even if the girl she once was did not.

But then he stopped coming.

A few days passed. Then a few more. Hunger gnawed. Silence pressed in. And slowly, dread settled into certainty. He was never coming back.

So she remained there in the dark, chained to the wall, surrounded only by the others—the girls who came before her, the ones who never left.

Audrey never stopped searching for her ex–best friend, Janie. They were only teenagers when Janie vanished, but the shock of her disappearance sent ripples through every corner of Audrey’s adult life. When she’s not teaching at the local high school, Audrey volunteers with search-and-rescue teams—part devotion, part penance, as if finding someone else might somehow atone for not finding Janie.

But when a search for a runaway girl uncovers evidence of a possible kidnapping, long-buried secrets and old traumas begin to surface. Audrey is forced to finally reckon with the truth she’s avoided for years and to confront what really happened to Janie.

I didn’t need to read the synopsis to know I’d be picking up The Girls Before, the latest from Kate Alice Marshall. She became a must-read for me after What Lies in the Woods and A Killing Cold, so my expectations were high. Still, the premise of this standalone thriller immediately hooked me.

Marshall employs shifting perspectives between the trapped girl and the woman searching for answers, a structure that creates an early sense of urgency and dread. The opening is undeniably gripping. But as the story unfolds, that momentum begins to thin. There are the bones of a compelling thriller here, but elements like the folkloric legend and a romantic subplot pulled attention away from the central mystery. 

By the time the major twist arrived, I’d already pieced it together and found myself more ready for the conclusion than surprised by it. Even so, Marshall’s ability to craft suspenseful scenarios and emotionally driven stakes remains as strong as ever. While this one didn’t resonate with me as much as her previous novels, it won’t stop me from eagerly picking up whatever she writes next.

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

(2026, 16)

There often comes a point in our lives when we’re faced with a fork in the road. For me, that moment arrived after completing my master’s degree. I had been working in both public and private education while also building a career as a musician, but my work–life balance was virtually nonexistent. There was simply no way to stop thinking about work; it followed me everywhere. Eventually, I made the difficult decision to leave the only field I’d ever known and try something entirely new.

Ten years later, I couldn’t have imagined how much I would enjoy my work, the fulfillment it would bring, or the balance I would regain in my life. I certainly never expected to grow into a leadership role. Over the years, I’ve appreciated listening to and watching Brené Brown speak about leadership, so I finally decided to pick up her book, Dare to Lead, to explore those ideas more. 

Brené Brown’s approach to leadership centers on leading with courage. She challenges leaders to wrestle with their own vulnerability, urging them to move beyond performative leadership and make genuine efforts to connect with their teams. She reminds us several times that great performance is ultimately about people, people, people. Brown argues that true trust, connection, and commitment grow only from a leader’s willingness to have hard conversations, own their mistakes, and show up imperfectly.

What I appreciate most about Brown’s writing is that she makes this kind of leadership feel attainable. Courage is a skill that can be taught and practiced, if we’re willing to lean into discomfort. Brown contends that leadership that avoids vulnerability breeds fear, while leadership that embraces it builds brave cultures. In a world often driven by posturing and image, that message feels radical and necessary.

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

(2026, 15)

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)