A Book A Week

Paul Tremblay has built a career writing clever, terrifying horror novels like A Head Full of Ghosts, The Cabin at the End of the World, and Horror Movie. Time and again, I've been impressed by his ability to pair horror with richly drawn characters, making him one of my automatic "must-read" authors. His latest, Dead but Dreaming of Electric Sheep, explores a very different kind of horror. This isn't the supernatural, keep-the-lights-on kind of terror readers have come to expect from Tremblay. Instead, he sets his sights on artificial intelligence and the unsettling ways our growing reliance on it could reshape what it means to be human. It leans more toward science fiction than horror, but it still packs quite the punch.

Julia is a down-on-her-luck twenty-something and former semi-professional gamer who's struggling to figure out what comes next. She lives with her uncle while juggling two jobs, neither of which she particularly enjoys. Then, out of the blue, her estranged mother calls with an unexpected opportunity. The tech company where she serves as CFO is looking for temporary help, and the paycheck is too good to ignore.

She's hesitant. Her relationship with her mother has never been easy.

But money talks.

After flying to the company's West Coast headquarters and breezing through an interview that feels more like a formality than an actual hiring process, Julia lands the job. It's just not the job she was expecting.

Her assignment is to chaperone a man in a vegetative state on a cross-country trip. Only he isn't lying in a hospital bed.

The company has implanted an experimental AI-powered chip into his brain, allowing employees to control his movements with what's essentially a video game controller. Perfect for Julia, right? Her task is simple. She just has to escort him safely from the West Coast to the East.

What could possibly go wrong?

While the title Dead but Dreaming of Electric Sheep is clearly inspired by Philip K. Dick, the novel imagines a future that feels much closer to the present day than we'd probably like to admit. Artificial intelligence has already worked its way into many aspects of our everyday lives, and it's impossible to know what its long-term impact will be. As the novel progresses, Tremblay alternates between Julia's perspective and that of the man she's controlling. The effect is fascinating, forcing readers to wrestle with questions of consent, morality, and whether we've really stopped to consider the consequences of handing so much of ourselves over to emerging technology.

Spoiler: we haven't.

Tremblay also includes brief interludes written in his own voice, stepping outside the narrative to reflect on artificial intelligence and the act of writing itself. AI may be able to generate words, he argues, but writing is about far more than stringing sentences together. It takes iteration. It takes wrestling with ideas, throwing them away, and reshaping them until they become something meaningful. As if determined to prove that point, Tremblay fills this novel with moments that feel unmistakably human. They're strange, inventive, and unlike anything I've encountered before. You'll know them when you get there.

The result is a novel that's fun, chilling, occasionally absurd, and ultimately a thoughtful cautionary tale about our race toward an increasingly automated future. It's another original, thought-provoking work from an author who continues to surprise me with every new release.

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

(2026, 57)

There's nothing better than a summer vacation. Okay, hold on. If I'm being honest, the season matters a lot less than the fact that you're taking a vacation in the first place. I'm probably more accurate in saying there's nothing better than a vacation, period. But for the sake of this review, just roll with me.

Summer vacations come with ample opportunity to relax and read, which is exactly what I did this weekend. Well...if I'm being technical, I actually spent most of it walking what felt like a marathon around Disneyland celebrating the park's 71st anniversary. Still, the flights there and back gave me plenty of uninterrupted reading time, and I happily spent them with Ally Condie's latest thriller, The Girls Trip. If you're going to take a vacation inside the pages of a thriller, though, you'd better expect a little drama. Ally Condie delivers plenty of it.

Two years ago, Hope, Ash, and Caro were complete strangers. They met during an online book club that didn't exactly go as planned. While everyone else logged off, the three stayed behind, struck up a conversation, and discovered an unexpected friendship. They still meet regularly for book club, though these days the books are often secondary to simply catching up.

Despite talking for years, they've never actually met in person.

Now, all three women find themselves in need of a getaway. Hope, a Hollywood actress, can't escape the spotlight. Caro, a doctor, is reeling after the death of a patient has left her questioning her career. And Ash, who runs a successful business with her husband, isn't so sure their marriage is as strong as it once was.

A few days together at the secluded Sonnet Resort in Eden National Park seems like exactly what they all need. But each woman has arrived carrying secrets of her own, and as their long-awaited vacation unfolds, it becomes clear that someone isn't telling the truth.

The Girls Trip is exactly the kind of thriller I want to pack for a vacation. It's fast-paced, effortlessly readable, and easy to lose yourself in whether you're stretched out on the beach or squeezed into an airplane seat. Having enjoyed Ally Condie's previous novel, The Unwedding, I suspected she'd deliver another compulsively readable mystery, and she didn't disappoint. The twists keep coming, and while the plot occasionally veers into the silly and convoluted, it's all part of the fun. Sometimes a vacation read doesn't need to reinvent the genre. It just needs to keep you eagerly turning the pages until you reach your destination. And no matter where your travels take you this summer, The Girls Trip deserves a spot in your carry-on.

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

(2026, 56)

Dear Readers,

I found myself wondering, "How do I possibly write a review of The Correspondent that conveys just how original and brilliant this novel is?" It's an epistolary work told entirely through letters and emails, and yes, I know that format has been used before, but perhaps never to such wonderful effect.

Then it hit me.

Why not write this review as a letter to you?

After all, you're the one visiting my blog, Amazon, or Goodreads, hoping to hear my thoughts on whatever I've just finished reading. I'll admit, I had my doubts. This format is a departure from the way I usually write reviews, and I wasn't entirely sure I could pull it off. But then I thought, "What the heck?" If Virginia Evans was willing to trust letters to tell her story, surely I could trust one to tell you why I admired it so much.

So, dear reader, allow me to tell you about a novel that completely charmed me.

One of the questions The Correspondent asks is this: How does one tell the story of a life?

For Sybil Van Antwerp, that life is told through letters.

She writes to everyone she can: her brother in France, her best friend, her neighbor, the child of a family friend, even the authors of whatever novel she's just finished reading. And through those letters, we gradually come to know her. She's complicated. Retired, aging, and struggling to come to terms with her failing eyesight. She can be warm, but also stern. Generous, yet occasionally petty. Perhaps the most revealing letters, though, are the ones she never sends—the words she can't quite bring herself to share.

Readers, I was apprehensive when I began this novel. I worried the format would amount to little more than a gimmick. But in the capable hands of Virginia Evans, I needn't have worried. This is a story that worms its way into your heart not through grand revelations, but through the simple rhythms of everyday life. Within these letters, we witness love, grief, regret, forgiveness, and all the beautifully ordinary moments that make up a life. By the time I reached the final page, I had the strange feeling that I'd been corresponding with Sybil myself all along. I wasn't ready for there to be no more letters left to read. That's the remarkable power of Evans's writing, and it's what made The Correspondent such a memorable read.

Should you choose to read The Correspondent, I hope you'll find the same sense of wonder that I did as I reached its final letter. If you do, I think you'll understand why I felt compelled to write this one to you.

Until our next book,

Ethan

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

(2026, 55)

There's one in every family. The kid who couldn't wait to leave home. The one people still ask about, even though they already know the answer. They're long gone. The moment they turned eighteen, they packed their bags, ran, and never looked back.

Vesper was that kid.

She couldn't wait to leave. Growing up in the shadow of her mother was enough to overwhelm anyone. Her mom was a movie star—a scream queen extraordinaire and cult horror icon. But it wasn't just fame that loomed over Vesper. It was something far more oppressive.

Religion.

The isolated community where she was raised expected her to carry on its traditions, but the first chance she got, Vesper escaped. She hasn't been back since.

When we meet her, Vesper is stuck working a dead-end job at one of those forgettable chain restaurants we've all eaten at but can never remember the name of. You know the kind. Wooden booths. Servers in stiff polo shirts that look uncomfortable before you even put them on. Forced renditions of "Happy Birthday" accompanied by a complimentary slice of frozen cheesecake.

Vesper has resigned herself to the fact that this is simply her life. After one particularly miserable shift—and one ill-advised decision to sneak a customer an unauthorized side of molten cheese in hopes of earning a better tip—she finds herself fired and heading back to the rundown apartment she's no longer sure she can afford.

Then she finds an envelope waiting for her. Inside is an invitation to her cousin Rosie's wedding, back at the family farm. The one place Vesper swore she'd never return. Every instinct tells her to throw the invitation away. Instead, she goes home. There, Vesper is forced to confront everything she spent years trying to escape, and, in the process, begins to uncover the truth behind the secret that's haunted her for her entire life.

Black Sheep sees Rachel Harrison write a darkly comic novel about family, faith, and the struggle to discover who we are in spite of both. The book is billed as horror, but I wouldn't call it horror in the traditional sense. Instead, Harrison uses elements of the genre to craft a story that is far more interested in its characters than in frightening its readers.

I went into the novel completely blind, picking it up solely on the recommendation of Sarah at All the Book Blog Names Are Taken. At first, I wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. The story seemed to meander. It was obvious that Vesper was miserable and desperately trying to outrun her past, but I kept wondering where it was all leading.

Then she returns home.

As the true nature of her family—and, let's call it what it is, the religious cult they belong to—comes into focus, everything that came before suddenly clicks into place. I won't spoil the revelation because discovering it is part of the novel's fun, but it's a wonderfully clever turn that completely reframes the story.

By the end, Black Sheep had won me over. What begins as an offbeat family drama evolves into a timely, darkly funny meditation on how family, religion, and tradition shape our identities, and what it takes to finally break free from them.

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

(2026, 54)

It's the height of summer here in South Texas, but that doesn't mean I'm staying indoors. In fact, I spent much of the holiday weekend outside, working in my flowerbeds and tending a rack of ribs on my smoker. Naturally, I had my AirPods in and an audiobook playing. This time, it was The Break-Up Retreat by Camilla Sten. It was my first novel from the author, and I was hooked from the very beginning.

Journalist Isobel Anderssen is searching for the kind of story that could make her career. Her latest lead is the Himlafall Clinic, a secluded retreat tucked away in the Swedish woods that promises to help women recover from devastating breakups. But beneath the façade of a wellness retreat, Isobel suspects something far more sinister is happening. Rumor has it that one woman checked into Himlafall...and never checked out.

Armed with a fake identity and a fabricated breakup story, Isobel checks herself into the clinic determined to uncover the truth. But almost immediately, her carefully crafted plan begins to unravel. The nurse who was supposed to be her inside contact is nowhere to be found. Her smuggled cell phone is confiscated. And the clinic's enigmatic founder, Dr. Martina Hastings, has an unsettling ability to see through Isobel's carefully constructed lies.

Whatever is happening at Himlafall, it's becoming increasingly clear that Isobel isn't the one in control. And if she can't uncover the truth before her cover is blown, she may become the clinic's next disappearance.

The Break-Up Retreat has everything I crave from a summer thriller. Camilla Sten crafts a novel full of mystery and intrigue, anchored by a complex protagonist who is forced to confront her own life, relationships, and emotions. Add in an atmospheric setting that casts a lingering sense of unease over every page, and you've got exactly the kind of story that makes it impossible to stop reading—or, in my case, listening.

Amid the more traditional thriller elements, Sten weaves in thoughtful explorations of mental health, relationships, and womanhood, giving the novel an emotional depth I wasn't expecting. Peyton Mader's narration brings every twist, revelation, and moment of tension vividly to life, making for an audiobook that's easy to become completely immersed in.

My favorite part of the read was that I never quite knew where the story was headed. Every time I thought I had it figured out, Sten steered the novel in a new direction. That's exactly what I want from a thriller, and it left me eager to read more from her. 

For more information, visit Amazon and Goodreads. 

(2026, 53)

Have you ever found yourself in a situation you felt completely unprepared to face? That's exactly how Leila feels when she's assigned her first murder case. The young barrister is stunned. The victim is a well-respected judge, and the man accused of killing him insists that Leila—and only Leila—represent him. She knows she's nowhere near experienced enough to defend such a high-profile case and appeals the assignment, but she's told she's technically qualified, even if she's never tried a murder case before.

As if that weren't enough, the prosecutor representing the Crown is one of the most accomplished trial lawyers in the country. He also happens to be her husband.

It's an impossible situation. Her client refuses to discuss the murder beyond insisting he's innocent. Her husband has built a career on winning cases and has no intention of taking it easy on her. Then, as the trial approaches, long-buried secrets from Leila's own past begin resurfacing. She's always prided herself on doing the right thing—in her career, in her marriage, and in her life. But with the biggest challenge she's ever faced bearing down on her, Leila may be forced to question everything she thought she believed.

Jo Murray draws on her own background as a barrister to bring an insider's perspective to her debut novel. Dissection of a Murder unfolds much like its title suggests: methodical, clinical, and painstakingly detailed, dissecting nearly every aspect of the case except, of course, the one question readers are most eager to answer. It is, after all, a legal thriller.

I'll admit I found the opening a bit too dry. The explanations of the British legal system and the careful setup of the characters made for a slow start, and I wasn't immediately sure where the story was headed. Thankfully, as the trial gained momentum, I became more invested in both the characters and their predicament, allowing the procedural elements to fade into the background.

Murray also introduces the mysterious perspective of Witness X, someone who saw the entire murder unfold but isn't involved in the trial itself. I guessed both the witness's identity and the truth behind the crime fairly early on, which took some of the suspense out of the mystery. Still, the emotional fireworks created by a husband and wife facing off on opposite sides of the courtroom added an engaging layer to what is otherwise a fairly straightforward legal thriller.

Ultimately, Dissection of a Murder is something of a mixed bag. Readers looking for an authentic courtroom drama will likely appreciate Murray's legal expertise, even if the mystery itself never proved quite as surprising as I had hoped.

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

(2026, 52)

Ivy Harcourt is riding high on the success of her debut romance novel. A reimagining of Wuthering Heights with a much happier ending, the book has become an unexpected bestseller. Her agent and publisher are eager for a follow-up, but Ivy is struggling to write it. After discovering her most recent boyfriend was unfaithful, she's convinced that "Maybe I just need to accept that the only happily ever after in my future is fictional." The only thing she truly likes about her work in progress is the leading man. If only someone like him actually existed.

Then she rescues a dog that escaped in the park and meets Liam. He's handsome, British, an architect...and uncannily similar to the fictional love interest she's been writing. Even his name is the same. Is it an impossible coincidence, or has Ivy somehow written the man of her dreams into existence?

The couple quickly becomes swept up in a whirlwind romance, but Ivy can't shake the feeling that something isn't quite right. There's nothing obviously wrong with Liam. In fact, he might be a little too perfect. After all, happily-ever-afters belong in books. If life suddenly starts following the script, it's only a matter of time before the story takes an unexpected turn.

Olivia Worley surprised me with her campy, twisty tale of obsession, So Happy Together, so when I saw Man of My Dreams was coming out, I couldn't wait to dive in. At first, it seemed like a very different kind of story. I was completely engrossed by the mystery of Liam—how he could possibly exist and what his true intentions might be. It felt like a clever blend of romance, magical realism, and suspense, and I was hooked.

Then the novel took a sharp turn into more familiar thriller territory, and that's where it began to lose me. The twists are entertaining, and the flashbacks add meaningful context to Ivy's character, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was reading a different book than the one I'd fallen in love with during those opening chapters. By the time a few overly convenient revelations arrived near the end, I found myself wishing Worley had trusted the original premise. The mystery of Liam was compelling enough on its own.

That said, Worley still has a knack for writing clever, over-the-top, popcorn thrillers that are easy to devour in just a few sittings. Man of My Dreams is undeniably a fun page-turner. I just couldn't help imagining an alternate version of this story that leaned further into its wonderfully strange premise.

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

(2026, 51)

My introduction to Ann Patchett came a few years ago with Tom Lake. That novel contemplated the lives we live, the lives we imagine, and the choices that separate the two. I was captivated by the subtle power of Patchett's writing and knew it wouldn't be long before I returned to her work. With Whistler, her latest novel, Patchett once again turns her attention to memory and the ways our lives are shaped by seemingly fleeting moments. Through the story of two people looking back on the brief period when their paths crossed, she explores how a single encounter can ripple across a lifetime.

Daphne and her husband, Jonathan, are visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art when Jonathan casually remarks that they're being followed. Daphne is skeptical at first. Why would anyone be following them? Jonathan is a retired hospital administrator, and she's a writing teacher at a private girls' school. But as she notices an elderly man tracking their—or rather, her—every move, she realizes Jonathan is right. Someone is following her.

Daphne has no interest in confronting the stranger, but Jonathan does. He approaches the man and returns a few moments later with him in tow. The stranger is Eddie Triplet, Daphne's former stepfather. She hasn't seen him in forty-five years.

Suddenly, memories come flooding back. Eddie was the second of the three men her mother married. A book editor by trade, he encouraged Daphne's love of reading and writing. The two shared a frightening experience that bound them together, and then, one day, he was simply gone.

Now, after nearly half a century apart, Daphne and Eddie have a chance to reconnect. As they do, Daphne begins to uncover the truth about the man who was briefly her father and the events that altered the course of both their lives.

With Whistler, Ann Patchett writes a novel about memory—how the things we experience as children may not be the way they actually unfolded, and how those perceptions can shape the course of our lives. We can never fully know why others make the choices they do, even when those choices have a profound impact on us. Patchett explores this idea through the relationship between Eddie and Daphne, revealing how their differing versions of the past shaped who they became.

Like her previous novel, Whistler is driven less by plot than by the relationships between its characters. I'll admit that its contemplative nature occasionally felt a bit slow for my tastes, but Patchett's sharp dialogue, warmth, and quiet humor made every page rewarding

What impressed me most was the way the novel gradually revealed its intentions. It wasn't until the final moments, when an ending emerged that felt so perfectly full circle for both Eddie and Daphne, that I fully appreciated the precision of what Patchett had been building all along. Emotionally and thematically, the ending hit every note it needed to. Patchett has an extraordinary ability to uncover the significance hidden within ordinary lives, and that gift is on full display in Whistler.

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

(2026, 50)

Lisa Jewell's novels are the literary equivalent of quicksand. You step in intending to read a chapter or two, and suddenly it's midnight, you're waist-deep in the story, and every attempt to stop reading only pulls you in further. So when her latest novel, It Could Have Been Her, was announced, it immediately shot to the top of my TBR pile. Thankfully, her publisher provided me with a copy, and I'm happy to report that it's another addictive thriller from an author who seems incapable of writing anything less than a compelling page-turner.

Jane Trevally lives a quiet life. Divorced, with her children grown and gone, she spends her days rattling around the decaying family home in the countryside. One afternoon, while out walking her dogs, she comes across a small white terrier wandering alone on the trail. Jane recognizes the dog immediately. It belongs to a teenage girl who has been renting a room on a neighboring property. The dog is there. The girl is not.

By the time the teenager is officially reported missing, Jane finds herself saddled with a dog she neither wanted nor has room for. Fortunately, the animal's registration records point her toward its owner, and Jane reluctantly agrees to make the trip to London to return it.

The journey leads her to Thornwood, a crumbling house tucked away in the deepest corners of Hampstead. The moment Jane lays eyes on it, she's overcome with a mixture of fear and recognition.

She's been here before.

Twenty-five years ago, Jane narrowly escaped a deeply unsettling encounter at Thornwood and never expected to see it again. The man who answers the door is not the man she remembers, but he's evasive and claims to know nothing about the missing girl. Jane returns the dog anyway, relieved to put both Thornwood and its memories behind her once and for all.

Then, just as she's about to leave, Jane catches sight of a haunted-looking woman through one of the house's windows.

In that moment, she realizes her connection to Thornwood isn't over. The house sits at the center of two mysteries: the disappearance of the teenage girl and the events that drove Jane from this place twenty-five years ago. To solve one, she may finally have to confront the other.

It Could Have Been Her begins as a seemingly straightforward missing-person case. Jane is the sort of woman who prefers not to make waves, content to keep her head down and avoid stepping on anyone's toes. But lurking beneath that quiet exterior is a restless desire for purpose, a sense that there must be something more waiting for her in the years ahead.

As Jane digs deeper and Lisa Jewell widens the lens to include other perspectives, the true nature of the story slowly reveals itself. And what a story it is. What starts as a simple missing-person case soon spirals into something far stranger and more twisted than I ever expected.

Seriously, this thing goes to some dark, twisted, deeply unsettling places, and I was completely riveted by every new revelation. In the hands of another author, the sheer number of secrets and escalating twists could easily become too much. But Jewell has a remarkable ability to balance the increasingly outrageous developments with quieter character moments that keep everything grounded. No matter how wild things get, the story's emotional core remains believable.

The result is another compulsively readable page-turner that I struggled to put down. Sure, the ending wasn't quite as explosive as I expected, but it still brought the story to a satisfying conclusion. Once again, Jewell reminded me why she's become one of my automatic-read authors. By the final pages, I was sinking deeper and deeper into the mystery, desperate to uncover the truth and powerless to stop turning the pages.

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

(2026, 49)

First comes love.

Luc and Oliver have come a long way in their relationship. When we first met them in Boyfriend Material, the pair were fake-dating in an effort to save Luc's job. Spoiler alert: they actually fell in love. Sure, Luc had to reconcile with his son-of-a-rock-star, caution-to-the-wind tendencies, while Oliver worked through the emotional baggage left behind by years of overbearing parents. But together, they made it work.

Then comes marriage.

When we last saw the couple in Husband Material, they were grappling with what comes next. They'd already gotten their happily-ever-after, so marriage seemed like the logical next step. Of course, nothing is ever straightforward with these two. The novel ended on a note that divided readers, even if it felt like a natural progression for Luc and Oliver's relationship.

Then comes...

What exactly comes after that?

With Father Material, Alexis Hall returns to the beloved couple once more, and as the title not-so-subtly suggests, Luc and Oliver are beginning to think about expanding their family. It's a question that starts creeping into many people's lives in their thirties. Friends get married. Babies arrive. Suddenly, the idea of children of your own no longer feels hypothetical.

For Luc and Oliver, however, the prospect of parenthood feels more than a little daunting. A child is a huge responsibility, and neither is entirely convinced they're ready for that step. So they start smaller. Much smaller. They bring home a puppy. After all, if they can keep a dog alive, happy, and reasonably well-adjusted, how much harder can a child really be?

I can't say enough great things about this series. Seriously, for someone who generally shies away from romance as a genre, I've become completely enamored with the characters that Alexis Hall has created. Not just Luc and Oliver, but the entire supporting cast as well. They all feel authentically human, navigating the emotional highs and lows of life in a way that feels far more grounded than what I've typically encountered in the genre.

Father Material brings their story to a natural and satisfying conclusion. Luc and Oliver still face challenges, and Hall continues to balance those conflicts with the sharp humor and quick wit that have become hallmarks of the series. But what struck me most was realizing just how much these characters have grown over the course of three books. The people we meet in Boyfriend Material are not the same people we leave here, and watching that evolution unfold has been a real joy.

Hall once again balances humor with genuine emotional insight, creating a story that is funny, heartfelt, and full of compassion. The epilogue landed exactly the way I wanted it to, offering one last visit with characters I've come to care about immensely. By the final page, I wasn't ready to say goodbye, which is perhaps the highest compliment I can give a series.

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

(2026, 47)

I love it when an author can transport you to a specific place and time. That's exactly what Caitlin Mullen accomplished with her debut novel, Please See Us. Set in a struggling Atlantic City, the book captured a seaside town filled with the faded promise of glamour and reinvention, making it the backdrop for a dark, slow-burning suspense story that completely pulled me in. By the time I finished, I was left with that rare post-book euphoria that only comes from discovering an author whose voice resonates with you. Naturally, I was eager to see what Mullen would do next.

That opportunity has finally arrived with Heather, her sophomore novel. This time, she trades the neon glow and crumbling casinos of Atlantic City for the dense wilderness of the New Jersey Pine Barrens. The setting may be different, but Mullen's gift for atmosphere remains intact. From the very first pages, she creates a sense of place so vivid that it feels as though you're wandering through the story yourself, and she wraps that atmosphere around another suspenseful tale that hooked me from the start.

It’s 1994, and sixteen-year-old Annabelle has just discovered that her twin sister, Sabrina, is having an affair with an older man. At first, she’s stunned. The sisters have always been inseparable, sharing secrets and navigating adolescence side by side. How could Sabrina keep something this significant from her?

But shock soon gives way to curiosity. Who is this mysterious man? What does he want with Sabrina? And why has her sister become so secretive? As Annabelle begins searching for answers, the unthinkable happens. Both girls disappear.

Years later, in the same New Jersey town, newly appointed police chief Callie Hauser is determined to prove herself. She’s spent her entire career trying to step out from under the shadow of her family’s reputation—particularly her mother's—and is eager to lead the department into a new era. But when an arrest unexpectedly reopens questions surrounding the decades-old disappearance of the twins, Callie finds herself pulled into a mystery many people would rather leave buried. The deeper she digs, the more unsettling the answers become. Long-held assumptions begin to crumble, loyalties are tested, and Callie is forced to confront uncomfortable questions about the town she serves and the people she trusts.

Caitlin Mullen's gift for pairing atmospheric settings with multigenerational mystery is on full display in Heather. She transports readers to this isolated corner of the New Jersey Pine Barrens, where the dense woods become a character in their own right. Hidden among the trees are secrets that span generations, connecting women whose lives are separated by decades yet bound together in unexpected ways.

Mullen alternates between past and present timelines, carefully peeling back layers of the mystery and revealing the truth piece by piece. The novel reminded me a bit of Liz Moore's The God of the Woods. Like that book, Heather is dark, meticulously plotted, and interested in much more than simply solving a crime. It explores family, womanhood, inherited trauma, and the ways in which the past continues to shape the present long after we think we've left it behind. While I ultimately connected a bit more with Mullen's debut, Heather is nevertheless a compelling and richly written mystery. It's the kind of novel that slowly tightens its grip until you're fully immersed in its world, eager to uncover each secret hidden among the trees.

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

(2026, 46)

Kathryn Stockett made waves when her debut novel, The Help, was released in 2009. The book became a publishing phenomenon, spending more than 100 weeks on bestseller lists before being adapted into an acclaimed film. But as the dust settled, a broader conversation emerged about the novel's perspective and Stockett's place in telling a story centered on the experiences of Black women during the Civil Rights era. Looking back on my own reading of the novel, I can see that I was largely swept up in its page-turning narrative and didn't spend much time considering those questions myself.

Controversy aside, The Help was undeniably a cultural force. That's why I was surprised when the years passed without another novel from Stockett. One year became five, then ten, and eventually fifteen. Now, after one of the longest gaps between a bestselling debut and a sophomore novel that I can recall, Stockett has returned with The Calamity Club. This time, she largely sidesteps the racial themes that defined the conversation around her first book, instead turning her attention to a girls' orphanage struggling to survive on the eve of the Great Depression.

The novel alternates between two primary perspectives. The first belongs to eleven-year-old Meg, one of the "big girls" at the Lafayette County Orphan Asylum. Meg is smart—perhaps a little too smart for her own good. She knows that older girls rarely get adopted, and she suspects that's why Garnett Pittman, the woman who runs the orphanage, seems to take particular pleasure in making her life miserable. According to Pittman, there’s no future for a girl like Meg. Instead, she spends her days confined to a sweltering, mold-infested office, counting down the years until she's old enough to leave and take a job at the local cannery.

Marion Crane is on the run, carrying stolen cash and desperate for a place to stay the night. She finds refuge at the isolated Bates Motel, where she meets the proprietor, Norman Bates—a handsome, if somewhat awkward, young man who seems unusually attached to his mother. After sharing a late-night sandwich with him, Marion retires to her room and turns on the shower.

She steps beneath the spray. The sound of falling water fills the room. Then, through the translucent curtain, a shadow begins to take shape.

The screech of violins and the scrape of shower rings on metal explode across the soundtrack as the curtain is pulled back, revealing a knife-wielding figure. Marion's confusion gives way to terror. She screams. The scene descends into a frenzy of flashing blades, splashing water, and chaos. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends. The killer slips away. Marion lies dead in the tub, water pouring from the showerhead as blood swirls down the drain.

It's one of the most iconic scenes in film history, a sequence that shocked audiences upon release and continues to influence horror storytelling more than sixty years later.

But what if Marion didn't die? What if, in those frantic moments, she fought back—and won? What if Norman Bates ended up dead on the bathroom floor instead?

That's the irresistible premise at the heart of Marion, in which author Leah Rowan reimagines one of cinema's most famous moments and follows the ripple effects of a story that suddenly takes a very different path. The moment I heard that setup, I knew I had to read it.

With Marion, Leah Rowan modernizes the original story and gives agency to a character who was largely powerless in Psycho. Here, Marion hasn't stolen money simply to run away with a lover. Instead, she's taken funds from the advertising agency where she works in a desperate attempt to help her sister escape an abusive relationship. It's a change that immediately reframes the character and makes her motivations feel more urgent and sympathetic.

And yes, Marion fights back.

What follows after that pivotal moment is a twisting chain of violence, secrets, and revelations that kept me completely riveted. Rowan takes a story whose ending feels predetermined and makes it unpredictable again. The novel moves quickly, embraces its pulpy roots, and never loses sight of the tension that made Hitchcock's original film so memorable.

Most importantly, Marion herself is a fantastic protagonist. She's sharp, resourceful, and determined in ways the original story never allowed her to be. The result is a clever reimagining that honors its source material while confidently carving out its own identity. Fast-paced, suspenseful, and enormously entertaining, Marion is the kind of book that's easy to devour in a weekend and a perfect addition to any summer reading list.

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

(2026, 44)

Ryan O'Connell is probably best known for his TV work on shows like Queer as Folk and Special. I've never seen his shows, so my first introduction to O'Connell came when I read his debut novel, Just by Looking at Him, a couple of years ago. Only after reading and learning a bit more about the author did I realize that much of that story mirrored aspects of his own life. 

Like the protagonist of that novel, O’Connell is a gay man living with Cerebral Palsy. He's been candid about his struggles with addiction, self-worth, and navigating the world with a disability. His writing blends sharp humor, vulnerability, and a willingness to engage with darker subjects without ever losing sight of just how absurd life can be. It made Just by Looking at Him a standout read and left me eager to explore more of his work. That opportunity has finally arrived with Inspiration Porn, a collection of autobiographical essays that promises the same honesty, wit, and unflinching self-examination that made his fiction so compelling.

Much of the first half of the book centers on O’Connell’s past. He writes about parents who fell out of love, a mother struggling with addiction, and a father who was off chasing the life he had always wanted—a life that, at least initially, didn’t seem to include his family. Amid all of this, O’Connell was grappling with being both disabled and gay. Through his trademark humor, he often frames it as if the universe had singled him out for an especially cruel joke. Couldn’t he have been just one of those things?

It should come as little surprise, then, that he eventually found himself struggling with addiction as well. Throughout those difficult years, writing became a refuge. On the page, writing for blogs and then TV, he found a place where he could be honest about who he was. It became a source of freedom, connection, and self-acceptance.

While much of this first section was compelling, it also felt like stories I'd heard before. It was in the second half of the collection that O’Connell truly took us into something different. There’s a universal experience many queer people can relate to. So much of our formative years are spent coming to terms with our sexuality that we don’t always get the chance to fully embrace it. I think about the occasional pang of jealousy I feel when I see queer teenagers going to prom together. I'm thankful that the world has evolved enough for them to feel safe doing this, but it's an opportunity that simply wasn’t available to me.

O’Connell explores a similar feeling after meeting his longtime partner, Jonathan. Just as he begins settling into a committed relationship, he’s struck by the fear that he may have missed out on an entire chapter of his life. It’s a kind of FOMO of sexual exploration. In true Ryan O’Connell fashion, he tackles that anxiety with equal parts humor and honesty, chronicling the decision to open his relationship and the resulting adventures in what he calls his "Slut Diaries."

As many laughs as there are in this portion of the book, it would be easy to overlook its deeper exploration of boundaries—of desire, emotional well-being, physical limitations, and, most importantly, the strength of a long-term partnership. Throughout it all, O’Connell maintains the balance of humor, chaos, vulnerability, and authenticity that makes his voice so distinctive. His life may look very different from that of many readers, but the emotions driving these essays are universal. The longing for connection, the fear of missing out, the struggle to accept ourselves, and the desire to be truly seen transcend the specifics of O'Connell's story. Inspiration Porn is the work of a writer willing to venture into uncomfortable territory—for himself and for his readers—and the result is a book that will have you buckled with laughter in one moment and deep in contemplation the next. 

For more information, visit Amazon and Goodreads. 

(2026, 43)

Last year, a coworker recommended Hildur Knútsdóttir’s The Night Guest, and I devoured it in a single sitting. I loved the tightly wound suspense, even if the ambiguous ending left me with more questions than answers. Despite some unevenness, the novel intrigued me enough that I knew I’d give Knútsdóttir another shot. That opportunity came with her newest release, Dead Weight, kindly provided to me by the publisher.

Unnur has built a life that is, on the surface, perfectly comfortable. She throws herself into her work in pursuit of a promotion and spends her free time traveling with her boyfriend, who also happens to be married. It’s unconventional and undeniably lonely, but it’s a life she’s convinced herself is enough.

That fragile routine begins to unravel when she discovers a black cat sitting on her couch.

At first, Unnur brushes it off as a strange inconvenience, shooing the cat from her apartment. But when it returns the next day, she tracks down its owner, a troubled young woman named Ásta, who asks Unnur to care for the cat temporarily while she gets her life together.

What follows is the beginning of an uneasy and increasingly complicated friendship. Ásta’s situation proves far more dangerous than Unnur initially realizes, and like the black cat that wandered into her home, darker omens begin to follow close behind. Before long, Unnur finds herself caught between Ásta and her abusive boyfriend, forced to confront just how far she’s willing to go to protect someone else and herself. 

With Dead Weight, Hildur Knútsdóttir delivers another quick, twisted little tale that quietly lulls readers into a false sense of security before pulling the rug out from under them. At first, the story feels almost deceptively ordinary, and I found myself wondering where exactly it was headed. Then suddenly, the darkness I’d come to expect from Knútsdóttir’s writing crashes into the narrative with full force.

Content warnings for domestic violence and abuse are absolutely warranted, and some moments are genuinely unsettling. Even so, I was glued to the story, unable to stop turning pages as the tension escalated.

And yet, once again, I found myself conflicted by the ending. The climax itself is dark and unsettling, but there’s very little aftermath to the events that unfold. Instead, the story seems to simply stop, cutting away just as I wanted to sit with the consequences of everything that had happened. There’s a brief epilogue that offers a little more context, but if anything, it only raises additional questions. Ultimately, that ambiguity left me feeling torn. I admire Knútsdóttir’s ability to create atmosphere and unease in such a compact space, but I can’t help wishing the novel had given just a bit more resolution to match the intensity of the journey getting there.

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

(2026, 42)

Are you quick to take action? I know I am. I tend to be highly action-oriented, driven to complete a task the moment I realize it needs to be done. But over time, I’ve also learned that speed comes with pitfalls of its own. Is everyone else moving with the same sense of urgency? Do they even understand why the task matters in the first place? Move too quickly without alignment or clarity, and the consequences can be more damaging than moving more slowly to begin with.

In Speed, John H. Zenger and Joseph R. Folkman draw on years of research to explore the value of acting quickly in professional environments and how the most effective leaders balance urgency with intentionality.

The book is divided into two sections. In the first half, Zenger and Folkman outline the benefits of moving quickly in an increasingly fast-paced world. Information now travels instantly, industries shift overnight, and organizations that fail to adapt risk being left behind. According to the authors, the most effective leaders are those who can respond decisively while still aligning their actions with the broader vision and purpose of their organization. It’s this combination of urgency and clarity that inspires both success and loyalty within teams.

The second half of the book is the more practical section, highlighting eight tactics leaders can adopt to increase their effectiveness and speed within an organization. Zenger and Folkman dive into topics like embracing innovation and change, sharpening strategic perspective, demonstrating courage, setting stretch goals, communicating clearly, maintaining an external focus, taking initiative, and deepening knowledge and expertise. According to the authors, even developing just a few of these traits can dramatically accelerate a leader’s impact.

When Michael Crichton passed away in 2008, readers lost one of the great masters of the techno-thriller, an author with a unique ability to merge cutting-edge science and technology with pulse-pounding storytelling. Yet even after his death, Crichton’s literary output has remained surprisingly active. Unpublished manuscripts have surfaced, unfinished concepts have been completed by other writers, and we’ve even seen unlikely collaborations, including a posthumous novel with James Patterson just a few years ago.

So perhaps it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that, eighteen years after his passing, a “new” Crichton novel has arrived. A Murder in Hollywood, originally written under a pseudonym back in 1973, is finally seeing the light of day.

Publicist Harvey Jason is no stranger to troubled productions. It’s the 1970s, and Hollywood is overflowing with oversized egos, rampant excess, and enough sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll to derail even the most carefully managed film set. Harvey’s job is to keep the chaos under control.

His latest project, the would-be Western blockbuster Bloodrock, has been cursed from the start. Endless rewrites and a screenwriter who keeps demanding more money have ballooned the budget and pushed the production behind schedule. And now things have gone from disastrous to deadly.

That very screenwriter has been found murdered in the bathtub of his motel room.

As the studio scrambles to keep the film afloat, Harvey finds himself caught between managing the increasingly volatile production and staying out of the way of Harlow Perkins, a brilliant and notoriously ruthless investigator determined to uncover who killed the writer. 

At first glance, A Murder in Hollywood reads like a throwback murder mystery steeped in nostalgia for a bygone era of glitz, glamour, and Hollywood excess. But then I reminded myself that when Michael Crichton originally wrote the novel back in 1973, this wasn’t nostalgia at all—it was contemporary fiction, offering a snapshot of the very industry he was beginning to break into himself.

That realization reframed the entire novel for me. What initially felt like a fairly straightforward murder investigation revealed itself to be something much more quintessentially Crichton. No, it doesn’t revolve around cutting-edge technology the way many of his later works would, but it still contains all the hallmarks of his storytelling: a compelling premise, brisk pacing, and a colorful cast of characters navigating a system built on ambition, ego, and illusion.

There’s also something fascinating about seeing traces of the writer Crichton would eventually become. Even this early in his career, you can feel his instinct for momentum and entertainment taking shape on the page. A Murder in Hollywood is an entertaining and intriguing time capsule, offering readers a glimpse into both 1970s Hollywood and the early evolution of one of thriller fiction’s most influential voices.

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

(2026, 39)