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)

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)

On August 6, 1945, the American military dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, and the world was forever changed. It’s difficult to comprehend the full weight of this moment: more than 200,000 people lost their lives as a result of the blast. In Ghosts of Hiroshima, Charles Pellegrino revisits this devastation through the eyes of survivors, blending history, science, and deeply human testimony. The result is a sweeping yet intimate account that captures both the scale of destruction and the lasting human cost of this turning point in history.

Like many readers, I approached this book with the realization that I knew very little about Hiroshima. In school, it was taught as part of the larger World War II story, but little attention was given to the profound human aftermath. Pellegrino corrects that by grounding the narrative in individual stories, tracing the moments leading up to August 6, 1945, and the unimaginable consequences that followed. He draws on firsthand accounts, archival research, and his scientific expertise to create a narrative that feels immediate, visceral, and raw.

What struck me most was the way Pellegrino uses memory as the central thread. He reveals how trauma lingers across decades, shaping survivors’ lives and echoing through generations. The “ghosts” of Hiroshima are not only the lives lost that day, but also the radiation sickness, survivor’s guilt, fractured families, nationalism, and the moral reckoning with nuclear warfare that followed. There are no easy answers here, only the necessity of remembering, learning, and honoring the people who lived through the unimaginable.

Ghosts of Hiroshima is a powerful, haunting read that humanizes a moment in history often reduced to statistics and summary. Pellegrino balances his scientific background with rich storytelling, making the book as informative as it is moving. It’s no surprise that filmmaker James Cameron has announced plans to adapt it for the screen. Until then, Pellegrino’s work ensures these voices—and their ghosts—are not forgotten.

For more information, visit Amazon and Goodreads. 

(2025, 68)

Claire hasn’t exactly been avoiding home, but she hasn’t made any effort to return either. For years, work gave her an excuse, but now she’s jobless, nearly broke, and running out of reasons. The truth is harder to face. Her sister Natalie vanished twenty-two years ago, just days after her eighteenth birthday. A man was arrested, blood was found in a car, and the case was declared closed. But Claire’s family never really moved on.

When a call from her father brings news of her mother’s injury, Claire finally comes back. Yet the house is suffocating, heavy with memories she can’t bear. With nothing to keep her in the city and nowhere else to go, she takes a summer job at Galloway Farms, a muscadine vineyard on the South Carolina coast, the very place Natalie spent her last summer alive.

What begins as a way to escape soon turns darker. Hidden among the vineyard’s belongings, Claire discovers an old diary. At first, it reads like a story of youthful rebellion. But as its secrets unravel, Claire is drawn into something far more sinister. And she can’t shake the feeling that Natalie’s disappearance may be tied to it all.

I first encountered Stacy Willingham’s writing with her debut, A Flicker in the Dark, and I was immediately drawn to the way she weaves psychological suspense with deeply developed characters. Her prose breathed fresh life into the Southern gothic thriller genre, a strength she carried into her follow-up novels as well. So when her publishers offered me a copy of Forget Me Not, I had to resist the urge to abandon my towering TBR pile and dive right in.

Forget Me Not has everything I’ve come to expect from a Willingham novel: a protagonist haunted by past trauma, a mystery that unfolds with expert pacing, and plenty of twists designed to keep readers off balance until the final reveal. Willingham takes her time letting the story simmer, building atmosphere and dread with each new revelation. I experienced most of the book through the audiobook, and Karissa Vacker’s narration gave the story a grounded, realistic weight that pulled me in even further.

My only minor complaint lies with the diary sections, which were written in third person. I’m not sure why that choice was made, but it occasionally pulled me out of the otherwise immersive flow. Still, buoyed by the atmospheric Southern vineyard setting, a troubled yet compelling main character, and a mystery that ties everything together, Forget Me Not proves once again why Willingham is one of today’s most exciting voices in suspense fiction.

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

(2025, 67)

Before succumbing to cancer in 2008, author Michael Crichton built a career on blending cutting-edge science with page-turning thrillers. It's a recipe that produced hit after hit. Many of his bestsellers, including Jurassic Park and its sequel The Lost World, went on to become blockbuster films. Crichton often grappled with the moral tension between scientific advancement and its potential cost to humanity, so it’s fitting that his work continues to spark conversation even after his death. The latest posthumous release comes in collaboration with James Patterson, the world’s bestselling author, who completed Crichton’s unfinished manuscript for Eruption. The result is a novel that feels true to both authors’ sensibilities.

It’s no secret that Hawaii’s islands are the remnants of volcanic eruptions. As director of the Hawaiian Volcano Observatory, John “Mac” MacGregor has dedicated his life to studying and learning from volcanoes. So when he hears a deep rumbling and feels the beach tremble, he knows exactly what it means. The long-dormant volcano on Hawaii’s Big Island has roared back to life. And this time, its impact will be felt far beyond the shoreline.

Mac springs into action as rivers of fire race toward towns, threatening to wipe entire communities off the map. The eruption is unlike anything scientists have ever recorded. It's violent, unpredictable, and catastrophic, but that’s only the beginning. Beneath the island lies a deadly secret, buried for decades under the guise of national security. The molten earth threatens to expose it for all to see. Mac and his team find themselves caught in a desperate race against nature, politics, and human folly. The fate of humanity hangs in the balance.

Eruption is exactly what I’ve come to expect from a Michael Crichton and James Patterson novel. Their styles blend seamlessly—Crichton’s compelling scientific setup and speculative edge merging with Patterson’s breakneck pacing and punchy short chapters—to create a story that hooks from the very first page. Is it the best novel I’ve ever read? No. It plays out like an old-school action movie, and many of the beats feel familiar. But the formula works for a reason, and it works here. Eruption delivers classic action-thriller excitement, grounded just enough in science to make even its wildest moments believable. It’s fast, fun, and exactly the kind of escapist page-turner I look for in a summer read.

For more information, visit Crichton's website, Patterson's website, Amazon, and Goodreads.

(2025, 66)

Each year, an estimated 30,000 dogs in the U.S. are bitten by venomous snakes. Last month, my dog Murphy became one of them. We let him out before bed, as we always do, and he came back limping, unable to put weight on his back leg. Within minutes, his paw swelled, and two small puncture wounds made the cause unmistakable. It was a snake bite. Thankfully, we rushed him to the emergency vet, and he’s made a full recovery. Still, I’d be lying if I said the thought of snakes lurking in my backyard doesn’t unsettle me. Like many people, I grew up believing the best snake was a dead snake.

In his newest book Slither, Stephen S. Hall shows just how common—and deeply ingrained—those fears are. But he also challenges them, arguing that if we took the time to understand snakes, our fear might shift into a deeper understanding. 

As we look back through history, it’s no wonder snakes have been both reviled and revered. From the sacred deities of ancient Egypt to the cautionary tales of the Garden of Eden, serpents have slithered their way through mythology, art, and religion. Stephen S. Hall traces this complex relationship with precision, showing how the enigma of snakes—their beauty, danger, and mystery—has shaped human culture for millennia. But what makes Slither most compelling is the way Hall blends that rich history with cutting-edge science.

For better or worse, much of what we now know about snakes has only come to light in recent decades. For centuries, fear and superstition kept us from asking what we might learn from them. Hall highlights startling discoveries.  He shows how pythons, for instance, spend most of their lives in metabolic stillness, with their stomachs at a pH similar to that of water—only to completely rewire their biology after a massive meal. Their organs grow and regenerate at astonishing rates before shrinking back to normal, a process scientists believe could unlock clues about metabolism and tissue repair. And that’s only scratching the surface.

Slither is a sweeping, comprehensive study that weaves science and biology with mythology, artistic depictions, and cultural fascination. Hall captures the wonder of what we still don’t fully understand, from snakes’ mysterious mating habits to their resilience against biological swings that would kill most other animals. He also explores the long-term consequences of human interference, like the exploding population of non-native Burmese pythons in Florida. By the end, I found myself with a healthier respect for snakes. I’m still wary of them, but Hall convinced me of their vital place in our world and the importance of continuing to study them.

For more information, visit Amazon and Goodreads. 

(2025, 65)

The Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina are known as much for their beauty as for their mystery. No one knows this better than Annie Gore. She grew up in a small holler, where legend and tradition could dictate a way of life. She took the first chance she had to escape by joining the military right out of high school and working her way up to become an Air Force Special Investigator. But folks in those hills will tell you something always draws you back home. Now retired and working as a private investigator, Annie is about to be pulled back to the place she left behind.

Ten years ago, three little girls vanished from a tiny mountain town not so different from the one Annie grew up in. One returned. The others were never seen again. After a decade without answers, the brother of one of the missing girls hires Annie to find the truth. She knows it’s a long shot, but the money is good and her own need for answers runs deeper than she admits. As Annie digs into a case tangled in secrets, whispered folklore of witches and crows, and a community desperate to forget, she realizes the sins of the past aren’t buried at all. They’ve been waiting for her to come find them. 

In The Witch's Orchard, Archer Sullivan draws upon her own experience growing up in the mountains to craft a mystery steeped in the enigma of Appalachian folklore. Every page hums with a lived-in atmosphere that deepens the suspense. I was first drawn in by the central mystery of the missing girls, but I became even more captivated by the way the townspeople responded to it. Each person Annie encounters offers their own version of events, and each one seems increasingly tangled with a folktale turned horror story.

What’s real and what’s just local legend remains uncertain, and that ambiguity fuels much of the novel’s tension. Sullivan’s publisher kindly provided me with the audiobook version, and I found Emily Pike Stewart’s narration to perfectly capture the haunting, lyrical quality of Sullivan’s prose. This is top-notch mystery writing that blends compelling characters, a touch of folklore, and a chilling sense of place. All in all, The Witch’s Orchard is an atmospheric and absorbing read.

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

(2025, 64)