Let’s play—in more ways than one—a game of pretend.

Suppose a neighborhood arts center has a meeting room called Founders’ Hall.

Someone objects. Founders, he says, were almost always men, men who excluded women. Founders, he says, were bad. Nobody wants to spend a board meeting defending sexism on behalf of a room, so the name becomes Community Hall.

But it turns out—thank you, Wikipedia—that this meeting place was founded by five people, three of them women, and that the group’s charter explicitly endorsed equality between the sexes.

The name, however, has been changed.

No harm, no foul? Maybe.

Because now new members learn that the room used to be called Founders’ Hall. Why was the name changed? Presumably there was something wrong with it. Perhaps women had been excluded. Perhaps the founders were all men. Perhaps there was some unpleasant history nobody quite remembers.

There wasn’t.

But now there is a story.

And, of course, one could tell the same story about conservative name changes. Imagine a gym called Wilson Gym. Someone is sure that the gym is named for Woodrow Wilson, who, among other things, lowered tariffs. That person insists the name must be changed, and no one feels comfortable disagreeing. The gym becomes Freedom Gym. Later somebody checks the archives and discovers that it was named not for Woodrow Wilson but for Wilson, Tom Hanks’s beloved volleyball in Cast Away.

No harm, no foul? Maybe. Many would claim that changing names like this doesn’t really matter. It’s just a place, after all. We should make people happy.

But I’d argue the new sign certifies the objection that produced it. The board changed the name; therefore the old name must have needed changing. People assume the old name was offensive even though the facts tell a very different tale.

A better response might have been: We checked. There is nothing here to correct.

That answer does not dismiss concerns about sexism—or, for that matter, enthusiasm for high tariffs. It simply says those concerns have nothing to do with this particular room or gym.

That distinction is worth preserving. Concepts such as sexist and pro-tariff are useful because they describe real things. If they are applied casually and without factual basis, they often worsen the problem they were created to address. In 2026, it’s a quick jump from the facts don’t matter to anyone who insists on them must be a liar.

It’s worth standing up to such efforts. Being offended by a fact does not make the fact an offense. There is nothing intolerant about refusing to pretend that something happened when it didn’t. Sometimes a name is just a name.

One of the questions I keep coming back to as a reader is what, exactly, authors owe us when they write about ugly people, ugly beliefs, or ugly periods in history. Should fiction protect readers from language or attitudes we now find abhorrent? Or does doing so limit authors and readers in iffy ways?

I adore Dennis Lehane’s incredible Small Mercies, chosen this week by NYT readers as one of the best hundred thrillers of this century. Set in Boston in the summer of 1974 and focused on the city’s violent response to the forced integration of its schools, it’s not for the sensitive reader. The main character, Mary Pat, is a bitter, alcoholic racist who, when her daughter vanishes, takes on the Irish mob, the police, and, from her perspective, all of Boston to find her child.

Our world was, obviously, a different place in 1974. Much of America was comfortable with and unashamed about its biases. It was an era when kids—I was one—grew up telling dumb Polack jokes, when the n-word was commonly used, and when same-sex relationships were treated with, at best, mocking humor and, at worst, violence. On the yellow buses I took home from school, kids taunted other kids about their weight, their dentition, and their ethnicity, and the bus driver paid not a whit of attention. (When I got braces in fifth grade, the kids on my bus in Bloomfield Hills chanted for what seemed like miles, Tinsel Teeth Duck! Tinsel Teeth Duke! My best friend Suzie, who’d not yet gotten her teeth fixed, heard Buck Tooth Ribbit, Ribbit, Ribbit. Buck Tooth Ribbit, Ribbit, Ribbit.)

In Small Mercies, Lehane writes Boston as it was. As he wrote, he was well aware that the language he wished to use would, for some readers, be unacceptable. He felt, however, that it was necessary to tell the story he wanted to tell. In this incisive interview at Shondaland, he said:

I’m not dialing this back. I’ll modulate it. I appreciate the need for nuance in some of this, but I’m not dialing it back fully. What we did was, we went in, and we looked at any place where it wasn’t clear that these words were coming from Mary Pat’s consciousness; they weren’t coming from the authorial voice. That was the key. We were very scrupulous about that. [...] I know this book is going to be brutal to read, and it’s going to be shocking to see those words. People are going to have a lot of trouble with some of it. But, man, my job is not to write to your safe space. If you can’t take it, don’t read the book. Simple as that. But it’s important that people see what the quiet part [of racism] looks like.

It will surprise my readers to hear that I huzzahed when I read this. I do not, either personally or as the publisher here, believe it is an author’s responsibility to write prose that makes readers feel safe, unappalled, or validated. And this goes well beyond Lehane or Small Mercies. Some of the most interesting fiction asks us to spend time with people we dislike, encounter beliefs we despise, or confront language and behavior we would never tolerate in our own lives.

Cranky old lady that I am, I tend to feel safe spaces may let us stay in our own worlds. This can stop us from growing and changing when we face challenges. As Alex Honnold writes, being fearful of something helps us differentiate between real, physical danger and general anxiety. We can avoid the offensive language and characters we wish and determinedly insulate ourselves from society’s evils, but that doesn’t stop the world from being full of terrors.

None of this means that readers have to read everything, or that every use of offensive language is artistically defensible. Authors can be clumsy, gratuitous, or cruel. Readers can close a book. They can hate it. They can say why. But that seems to me quite different from arguing that certain characters, words, or ideas should not appear on the page at all.

I’m with Mr. Lehane. No author owes a reader a safe space. A reader can choose not to explore tomes they’re sure will upset them—this assumes they have a Goodreads account where spoilers and trigger warnings abound—or they can abandon works the moment they encounter a word or idea they consider dangerous. Let novels be free to challenge, transform, inspire, and entertain. Keep gatekeeping private—you do you and let books be books.

The writing duo Ellery Lloyd’s arresting Time to Burn begins with a splendidly bad idea: selling time travel to rich people.

This is the premise of billionaire inventor Inigo Frank’s company, Tempus Tours. Tempus—and what could go wrong with this?—sends wildly wealthy clients into the past, albeit under strict government rules. Crucially, travelers may visit only periods Tempus and the government believe are fully known. Thus, currently no one can travel any further back than World War II. The clients, naturally, sign reams of documents promising merely to observe and never to change anything.

Documentary filmmaker Phoebe Hunt has been hired to make a film about Inigo and the business, and on her first day she watches businessman Harry Allen and his family depart for and then return from a celebratory dinner at London’s Café de Paris in 1941. On their return, the portal opens. Almost all the travelers come through battered and bloody. Harry’s daughter-in-law, Sasha, however, does not.

Tempus assumes Sasha has been lost during the Blitz. Phoebe is not so sure. A little time spent on social media shows Phoebe that Sasha is not who she claims to be. Could she have stayed behind deliberately? Is Sasha trying to change the past? The present? Phoebe is determined to find out.

The novel moves between 1941, 2007, and the present. Phoebe and Sasha narrate, while footage from an earlier documentary Phoebe made about her rather famous father gradually reveals what happened when Phoebe and Sasha were young. There is a lot to keep straight here, yet I never needed to pause to untangle timelines or remember who knew what. Lloyd’s grasp of the story is absolute—it all made clear sense to me.

Inigo, of course, is familiar to the modern reader. He is a technobillionaire, and is supremely confident in his invention and in his right to unleash it on the world. Lloyd does not need to exaggerate him or the dangers his arrogance has unleashed. He created time travel because he could. The ethical issues it raises, the dangers it could create—these don’t really concern him. He’s sure he’s got it all under control.

And though Sasha isn’t Inigo, she too has an agenda. She’s in 1941 in London for specific reasons. Sasha’s alterations to 1941 produce differences in the present, some small and others anything but. But Phoebe remembers the world as it was before and is determined to check Sasha. One of the novel’s many joys is watching two smart women fight for the lives they each want.

I don’t want to say much more about this marvelous yarn other than to say it’s one of the best time-travel novels I’ve ever read. It’s also a love story, a study on family dynamics, and a subtle treatise on money, class, power, and perception. It’s original, smart, and very hard to put down. Reading it was pure pleasure.

If you watched the painfully slow final season of The Bear—is there anything duller than repeatedly watching others watch it rain?—you were rewarded in its final episode with a blissful celebration of friends and family, both born and found. The routinely sad, destructive, lonely, and often angry staff at Chicago’s least believable fine-dining establishment gathered together and seemed, to a person, thrilled to be part of—or at least adjacent to—the dysfunctional but (finally) loving Berzatto clan.

This same vibe, an unabashed celebration of deep connection, also grounds the end of Hacks. Deborah and Ava, together 4eva, still love their work. But, the show implies, they love each other more. It is their friendship the show leaves us with. Hugs for all!

The message of Remarkably Bright Creatures, in both the novel and the television film—I <3 Sally Field so hard—is just as clear. You need family, whether you are born into it or—thank the gods—find it later, to thrive. (It also helps to have a giant Pacific octopus looking out for you.)

Might prestige pop culture finally have had enough of mayhem, betrayal, and horrible humans behaving horribly? Perhaps the wild success of Ted Lasso nudged the culture away from “life sucks” and toward “love is the answer.” Whatever the reason, I am glad to see it. Maybe next, we’ll rediscover sex. A girl can dream.

As a child, I’d clasp the hand of another on the playground, skip in a circle, and sing

Ring-a-ring-a-roses,
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down.

This rhyme is famously said to be about the Black Death (although folklorists doubt that it existed prior to the 18th century.) In human history, few events have been more transformative than the Plague of the 14th century. It is believed to have killed almost half of Europe’s population and remade Western society.

The Plague first arrived in Europe in 1347, the year in which DeLozier’s extraordinary first novel Eleanore of Avignon is set. The novel begins in November of that year, on the outskirts of Avignon, where Eleanore, our fictional titular lead, is searching for medicinal herbs: comfrey for Anes’s swollen knees, fennel for the baker’s fussy baby, pennyroyal to keep the fleas at bay. Eleanore is an herbalist, a gifted one. Her mother, now dead from childbirth, was the city’s midwife and, some say, witch. Eleanore has inherited both her mother’s mantle and, Eleanore’s most prized possession, her book of herbal healing: Dog-eared and water-stained, it contains all her remedies: medicines to start contractions when a baby will not come, for toothaches and gripe, to soothe winter coughs and ease swelling in painful joints.

As Eleanore walks back to the home she shares with her sister, Margot, her father, and their maid, Anes, she hears the usual sounds of stone masons shouting and of hammer blows. This is the time of the Avignon Papacy, the seven decades in which seven popes resided in Avignon rather than in Rome. The current pope, Clement VI, a man known for his love of luxury, is building a new palace fit for a king. And though his reign over the church is relatively unchallenged, the rule of the land is contested. Eleanore and her sister Margot support Queen Joanna, Queen of Naples and Countess of Provence, who soon will travel to Avignon to stand trial for the murder of her first husband, Andreas.

A few days later, as Eleanore is again out hunting for herbs--she finds a rare bounty of hawthorn berries (The fruit is cleansing and acidic; it decreases swelling and produces copious urine in someone with too much water in their body.)--she encounters a giant of a man. He asks her for the berries--he is, he says, a physician and he needs them for a patient. He is at first startled at Eleanore’s knowledge of the plant’s powers. After speaking with her, however, he is impressed and asks if she’ll accompany him to his laboratory and show him how to make her mother’s hawthorn tonic which he hopes will help his patient.

This doctor is no ordinary practitioner--he is none other than Guy de Chauliac, the pope’s personal physician and perhaps the most gifted surgeon in Europe. Though Eleanore is terrified, she goes with him and makes a tonic for the ill pope. Her tincture is effective and soon she is working with Guigo, as he is called, in his laboratory, learning the craft of medicine. Eleanore has never been happier--the two are a great partnership and she revels in being taken seriously as a healer and in all that she is learning.

Then, Clement VI summons the two to his quarters and tells them that the pestilence Eleanore has heard rumors about has arrived in Marseilles. The Pope tasks Guigo and Eleanore with finding a cure--they know it is simply a matter of time before the Black Death comes to Avignon.

By February,

Ash from the bonfires hangs thick in the air, casting the buildings in queer yellow light and catching in our hair like snow. Avignon’s bells no longer ring. The only sounds in the city are the rattle of the corpse carts and the calls of the crass country peasants who push them to the overflowing cemeteries: “Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!”

Twenty thousand Avignonese have perished.

Everywhere, there are whispers of blame. In Avignon, as in much of Europe, many blame the Jews for the Black Death. Others, wrapped in the robes of the church, blame the sins of the people and speak of witches and necromancers. It is a terrifying time. Each day, Eleanore sees those she knows and cares for die and, despite the Pope’s assertion that the work the Guigo and Eleanore are doing--Clement VI lifted the Church’s ban on autopsies so that de Chauliac could study the dead to better understand the disease--is blessed, there are priests in the town who wish her burned at the stake.

Eleanore of Avignon is superb historical fiction. I can scarcely credit that this is a first novel. Its context reflects our own times but never feels like a veiled parable. I was astounded at the barbarity and brilliance of the medical practices DeLozier presents in great detail and at the wisdom and stupidity of those who tried to stem the endless horrors of the Black Death. But the wonders of this book aren’t limited to its outstanding presentation of history--this is also a marvelous tale.

Eleanore’s story--the book is told in first person--is absorbing. Though she is literally trying to save the world, she is also trying to make sense of it. She deeply loves her twin, but Margot is also a frustration--for her sister, Eleanore’s ambitions are dangerous and threaten Margot’s own. As she and Guido work with others in Avignon to try to heal and to care for the some many sick and dying, Eleanore is drawn to David, a young Jewish medical apprentice though such relationships are forbidden. As more die, every choice Eleanore makes could mean the difference between life and death, not just for her, but for those she loves and those she tends to. I was riveted by her.

As a child, I was fascinated by the big questions: Can one person make a difference? Does love win? How does one defeat evil? In Eleanore of Avignon, these answers to these are plausible because they are ensconced in a clearly delineated time and place. They are potent because Eleanore, fiercely devoted and willing to risk everything, is a narrator of the highest order. I can’t recommend her story highly enough.

Melbourne DS Judith Lee is stressed even before she gets to work. She’s getting nowhere on the drive-by killing of a drug kingpin—no one will talk—plus her face and body hurt from the beating she took the night before while taking down a drug-addled asshat of a fellow cop. Waiting for her when she gets to work is a young woman named Alexis Turner, there to report a sexual assault. Judith no longer works sex crimes, but Alexis has asked for her by name, so Judith, who really doesn’t have the time, takes the complaint. But as Alexis describes the incident, the story sounds horribly familiar and when Alexis names her attacker, Judith is unmoored.

Ten years ago, a different young woman came to Judith with the exact same complaint about the exact same man, and Judith has always regretted how she handled it. Perhaps, she reasons, if she can get justice for Alexis, she might be able to forgive herself for her past mistake. This, she decides, is a case she must take.

The case, though, doesn’t unfold neatly. The accused man, Robert Walker, is a well-known psychologist in town. He claims he’s innocent and is adamant someone is out to get him. And as Judith begins trying to verify Alexis’s complaint, she realizes he might be right. Someone is targeting not just Robert, but also a successful fashion designer named Elsa Anderson and a single father named Jack Miller. As Judith looks into the threats against the three, she realizes that Alexis Turner came to see her deliberately. Judith and those she loves are also in danger.

Dervla McTiernan has written a very smart, very satisfying mystery. Each chapter adds more plot—this is a slightly byzantine story—but all of it tracks and all of it is easy to parse. There are no wacky, out-of-the-blue twists here. The novel is a well-constructed slow-burn thriller with a fabulous lead. Judith is an excellent detective, and it is satisfying to watch her, patiently and methodically, figure out the who and the why behind the crimes.

Judith is matched by a terrific villain. Smart, devious, and lacking even a drop of ordinary human kindness, they are a real match for Judith. Watching Judith slowly get the upper hand is marvelously satisfying. I recommend Three Reasons for Revenge unreservedly and hope McTiernan plans for more Judith Lee books. The detective—and this book—are winners.

These days, a hell of a lot of mysteries praised by book critics seem based on the same assumption: the vast majority of men suck—they’re murderous at worst and viciously sexist at best. Thus, a book’s villains don’t need much more of a motive than their chromosomal makeup. And, faced with such a shit half of the human race, the primary emotion for the women in these books, as well as for the women reading them, is anger.

This, my friends, makes for dull thrillers, and Heather is indeed dull. Our putative heroine, Callie Hauser, a newly minted small-town police chief at age thirty, is surrounded by crap men. The cops she works with are nasty—all, we’re to infer, because of her gender. Those men in the New Jersey Pine Barrens who aren’t police are lustful, arrogant, rude, and capable of very bad things. (There are two—two!—who aren’t. Woo hoo!)

Honestly, the subtitle of this book could be: Do men make you angry? Well, they should.

But Heather is not a yawn only because its raison d’être is misandry. It is also, more damagingly for a mystery, blandly predictable. We follow Callie as she rather randomly dives into a cold case connected to her mother while ignoring, as far as I could tell, most other police work. As she determinedly, and often with little judgment, pursues the clues, most savvy thriller readers will be ahead of her. (I’d sussed out the main villain by chapter three.) Additionally, the plot relies on more than one silly coincidence, several of which are absurd.

But let’s back up a bit. Callie, at the book’s start, has just learned of a cold case—from 1994—in which a newborn was abandoned and found dead. Who found the dead baby? Her teenage mom, Jenna, who then spent much of the rest of her life as a dysfunctional alcoholic. Jenna has suddenly vanished and now, rather oddly, Callie has decided her goal in life is to solve the decades-old crime. (This during a severe drug epidemic in her jurisdiction which is causing several overdoses a week.)

The book then travels back in time to the lives of twin teenage girls whose mother has abandoned them and whose father has nearly done the same: Sabrina and Annabelle Riley. Sabrina, the wild one, is having an affair with an older man while Annabelle, the good one, is determined to leave their wretched life and go to college. The affair—and anyone with a brain could figure out the man’s identity—derails them both.

As the book moves back and forth over the years, Callie slowly, agonizingly so, zeroes in on the Riley sisters and what really happened to both girls. As she does, she pisses off just about every man she encounters and works with. But she soldiers on because she knows, she just KNOWS, that if she can find out what happened to the Riley girls, she will finally be able to understand her mother, Jenna, and thus somehow put her own demons to rest.

This is a book with many subplots, few of which are done well, characters who are either unlikeable or unbelievable, and a rushed and unsatisfying conclusion. If you’re looking for a book that will either help you fall asleep or make you want to move to an all-female utopia, you might enjoy Heather. I did not.

The three books in The Folk of Air series by the inventive Holly Black are a deeply satisfying read. Honestly, I advise you to quit reading this review and, instead, find a way to get your hands on all three books. (Book one, The Cruel Prince, is on sale today!)

Still here? OK. That’s on you.

Why do I so love these books? Well, to begin with: Jude. Jude is Black’s protagonist and, for all but the prologue of each book, their narrator. She is splendid. She’s everything I want in a character--complex, thoughtful, flawed, smart, and compelling. As the first book begins, Jude is verging on adulthood in the world of Faerie where, unlike anyone else, she and her twin sister Taryn are human AND members of the High Court--their adoptive father Madoc is the the General to the High King and has raised them as though they were his daughters in truth. Jude and Taryn have lived in Faerie for just over ten years and are profoundly aware that being a human in Faerie is no easy thing. The fey see humans as less than and, for Jude and her sister, that’s meant a decade of danger and daily humiliations.

Jude--an utter bad ass--dreams of becoming a knight so she will have her own--and not Madoc’s--power and will thus be accepted as a permanent member of the Court. Her sister Taryn seeks another path to inclusion: marriage to a fairy of the High Court. The paths the women pursue will, over the course of the series, put them at risk and at odds. Though they’ve been lived the same lives in many ways, they don’t see the fey the same nor do the wish to wield power in the same way. Taryn is curiously subtle, more interested in kisses than in politics. Jude is ambitious--in no small part due to watching Madoc scheme. Thus when the current High King announces his retirement and his heirs--only a child of old Mab’s blood may rule--strive for the throne, Jude sees an opportunity for herself to ally well. And therein begins a story of violence, politics, love, fear, and magic.

And then there’s Cardan, the youngest of all the High King’s sons, inhumanly beautiful and routinely, horribly cruel. His relationship with Jude is perplexing and deeply dangerous to Jude... and perhaps to himself. Cardan and Jude are determined to protect what they want for themselves and for the kingdom and the ways they do so are keenly informed by complicated, compromised ethics. Following their story over the three books—folks, this is how enemies to lovers is done.

That’s all I’ll say about the plot. I want you to have the joy of reading just as I did. #nospoilers

The Faerie of The Folk of Air, as the fairies of the High Court are called, is traditional and not. It’s a world where Vivienne, Jude’s older half-fairy sister, is in love with a mortal girl, fairies have alliances with humans and fairies of either sex, and weeds can be made into flying steeds. There are no cell-phones or TVs or fish sticks or bras. The magic the fairies have gives them the ability to do almost anything and yet they cannot lie and simple wards can rob them of their power. Jude, human by nature and fairy by nurture, uses her knowledge of both and maneuvers her way to... well, that would be telling.

The books build on one another beautifully, each deepening the complex narrative and illuminating the dispositions and motivations of the characters. The principals here, varied and satisfyingly authentic, are among the believable I’ve encountered in fantasy. One of the many joys of the three novels is seeing the conclusion of the stories of Madoc (Jude’s adoptive father who wants the throne for his own), Taryn, Vivi, the Ghost, the Bomb, and the Roach (fellow spies from The Court of Shadows where Jude once served) and a legion of others.

At its marrow, though, the series is Cardan’s and Jude’s story and I’m hard pressed to think of a pair I’ve liked more. In The Cruel Prince, Cardan and Jude begin as enemies, he a hateful brutal prince whom Jude hates more than anyone else in the Court. Over the next thousand pages, the two form a snarled partnership that, by the series’ end, empowers not only themselves but all of Faerieland. Theirs is love-hate story for the ages and one I suspect I’ll read and recommend again and again.

The One Day You Were My Husband opens with one hell of a scene. Carrie Cole, a young British surgical intern, stands on a beach in Thailand. The sunset is gorgeous, the flowers are divine, and she is blissed out: she has just married the love of her life, a charismatic dive instructor named Johan. Really, she could cue Timbuk 3. Suddenly, armed police swarm the beach, seize Johan, and throw him in jail. Once there, he refuses to say a word to Carrie. After a few confused and desperate weeks, she returns home to England with no idea what really happened. She was so sure she knew him. Why did he cut her out?

Twelve years later, Carrie is married to Robin, a supportive man with whom she has six-year-old twins. She is preparing to return to surgery after years at home, and as part of that process, decides to visit a former colleague in Stockholm. While searching for a place to stay, she is astonished to find a cottage hosted by Johan. She had been told he received a twenty-five-year prison sentence in Thailand. So why is he smiling by the Baltic Sea in Sweden? Carrie—and the reader—have to know.

The novel moves between 2010, when Carrie first meets Johan, and 2022, when she encounters him again. Both timelines are riveting, in large part because Carrie, who narrates the story in first person, is an interesting protagonist. She is a gifted physician, and her profession matters deeply to her. She is also a dedicated parent and spouse, struggling to balance her return to work with the needs of her family. Nothing is easy for her, but nothing feels melodramatically impossible either. She is competent, credible, and compassionate. I believed in her skills in the operating theatre, at home with her family, and as an amateur investigator.

Watching Carrie gather information, trust her instincts, and pursue the truth about her past—even when that pursuit threatens her present—is deeply satisfying. The final act takes several bold turns, but they feel earned rather than engineered. Too many thrillers rely on twists that exist only to jolt the reader; here, the surprises emerge organically.

From beginning to end, The One Day You Were My Husband is a genuine page-turner: elegantly constructed, emotionally persuasive, and wildly entertaining. Its plot, setting, and characters mesh beautifully. It is exactly the kind of thriller that rewards its readers: immersive, twisty, and impossible to put down.

For almost twenty years, I ran All About Romance, one of the genre’s essential institutions: a place where romance was taken seriously without anyone having to pretend we were all swooning over the latest unreadable Booker Prize winner. I’m not sure how many romances I’ve read—2,000? 3,000?—but it’s a lot. A lot a lot.

I don’t read much romance anymore. The genre has moved away from my tastes, and my tastes have changed too. Still, I think romance novels are the bomb. They lift readers up—I’m a big fan of aspirational fiction—and at their best, they can be excellent in all the ways great books are excellent: thrilling plots, characters you’d love to meet, and prose that makes you gasp.

I’m often asked which are my favorites.

Here, in no particular order, here are my top ten.

The Everlasting by Alix E. Harrow

Bench Player by Julianna Keyes

Dukes are Forever by Bec McMasters

My Lord and Spymaster by Joanna Bourne

Off the Edge by Annika Martin

Uncommon Passion by Anne Calhoun

His at Night by Sherry Thomas

Reckless by Anne Stuart

The Duke of Shadows by Meredith Duran

I Kissed an Earl by Julie Anne Long.

note: this list may change with time as most things do

and

a contemporary romance coming out in October—Bad Words by Rioghnach Robinson—will replace Reckless by Anne Stuart

I have tried to avoid spoilers here but this is a book that to know anything about it at all might diminish its twists. You have been warned.

Yesteryear is one of those buzz books that suddenly seems to be everywhere. It sucked me in immediately and, for most of it, I could not put it down. But as the book barreled toward its gonzo conclusion, it became less of a wow read and more of a wtf one.

The setup is terrific. Natalie, a trad wife influencer, has built a huge platform around a curated domestic life. She lives on a tucked-away Idaho farm with her husband and many children, posting perfectly lit shots of her perfectly faked life. In reality, her husband Caleb is a man-child, her kids are photo ops, and she damn sure uses pesticides on her fake hand-grown organic crops, which are actually grown by ranch workers. Her followers would be shocked to see the nannies, the modern appliances, and the rage holding the whole thing together.

Then, one morning, Natalie wakes up in what appears to be the early 1800s. There, her husband — a harder, meaner version of Caleb — expects her to do a shitload of work. She is freezing. She is exhausted. Her supposed children are strangers. Why has this happened? Is it real? Is it punishment? Delusion? Both Natalie and the reader have no idea.

For a while, that uncertainty works. Yesteryear is sarcastic, startling, and ridiculously readable. But the farther I read, the less the pieces held.

Natalie is the clearest problem. She is awful in every version of her life, which is not, by itself, a flaw. I’ve nothing against an unlikeable woman. Go forth, be horrible. But Natalie’s horribleness never really develops. It just keeps appearing.

In flashbacks, she is a pious and cruel scholarship student at Harvard, where she loathes her classmates, especially the women. She thinks nearly everyone is an idiot. Even Caleb, whom she meets and very quickly marries, seems to inspire less love than calculation. In the present, she barely tolerates her children, lies to almost everyone, and is horrific to her staff. In the 1800s, she is frantic, bratty, cruel, and maybe insane, maybe not.

At first, her contradictions are interesting. She hates motherhood but keeps having children. She hates the farm but insists on staying there. She disdains her husband but judges other women’s choices. She performs a life online that she plainly resents. I wanted to see what would happen when the performance collapsed. But the contradictions do not deepen. They repeat. Again and again, the book tells us that Natalie is hypocritical, cruel, delusional, and trapped in a life she claims to value. Okay. She is. And?

The Caleb thread should sharpen this, but it muddies it instead. Caleb is there in all three of Natalie’s lives: college, the present day, and the 1800s. In college and in the present, Natalie dislikes sex with him. Then, in the 1800s, when Caleb is at his most domineering and frightening, something shifts. That could be fascinating. It could also be horrifying. But the book never made me believe it knew what to do with the shift. I kept waiting for those sudden orgasms to mean something. They didn’t.

The book’s ideas have the same problem. Yesteryear raises questions about faith, gender, marriage, motherhood, labor, influencer culture, and the performance of feminine virtue online. It does not need to answer all of them neatly. Ambivalence can be powerful. But here, the ambiguity did not feel controlled. It felt poorly thought out.

And then there is the ending. Without getting into spoilers, it did not work for me. It did not make Natalie make more sense. It did not sharpen the book’s ideas. It did not make the earlier mess feel intentional. It felt like the close of a provocative setup the novel did not know how to resolve. Worse, it makes no sense.

I can see why Yesteryear has grabbed so much attention. It is readable, bitterly amusing, and full of ideas to talk about. But for me, it was too frustrating to satisfy. It could have been an incisive novel about the fantasy of domestic purity and the women who sell it and are crushed by it. Instead, it was a page-turner that fell apart. Even now, after giving it a lot of thought, I have very little idea what it ultimately wanted to say. It is a good time. I suspect it is not a good book.

The premise of Caller Unknown is shaky from the very beginning. Simone flies from the UK to Texas to meet her daughter, Lucy, who has spent the summer working at a camp before starting drama school at RADA. For their last week together, they choose—improbably—to camp in Big Bend National Park, a place where people die of heat and exposure every summer. On their first morning, Lucy is gone, a phone in her place, and Simone is told not to involve the police.

This should be the setup for a gripping thriller. Instead, it becomes a story that only works if you’re willing to accept one implausibility after another. Simone is a successful chef with money, yet the idea of hiring a lawyer never seems to register, even though it would be the obvious path. Again and again she makes the least believable choice, and the novel insists this proves her devotion. To me, it read as enabling. She is so desperate never to offend Lucy that she allows decisions no sane parent would make.

That mother–daughter relationship is what finally undid the book for me. Simone is an unhinged parent in the way she cannot stand the idea of ever being apart from Lucy. Lucy, meanwhile, is written as one of those young people who are completely unreasonable and justified in being so. Even something as small as the catcall remark—using men’s rudeness as an excuse to be rude herself—felt less like character development and more like a statement on the patriarchy. I couldn’t root for either of them--separately or together.

The plot, the damned plot, makes no sense. The timeline is confusing, and the legal framework is presented in ways that make little sense, particularly for characters who are white, wealthy, and British. The book seems determined to pretend Simone and Lucy are powerless when, in fact, they are not. And don’t even get me started on the way Lucy sees and treats her husband, Damien. As we’ve said here many a time, reverse discrimination is a bad look and here, Damien’s love for his daughter and his right to be involved in her predicament are written as though he is less: Less capable of love--here it is only a mother’s love that truly has weight--and less allowed to act as an equal parent. I wouldn’t have liked Simone any way, but, man, the way she dismisses Damien again and again is infuriating.

What does work in the book is the writing—there are vivid scenes and stretches of real tension—but that contrast only makes the weaknesses sharper. A catastrophic chain of events unfolds, but it fails even the most basic of tests--does this make any sense at all?--and the characters are both rather icky and farfetched. I finished the novel frustrated and unlikely to read another book by this author.

This is the third installment in my list of 25 favorite mysteries. You can find the first two here and here. As is always the case with favorites, I make no claim these are the best. They are simply the novels I’ve read, loved, and read again. I’d love to know which ones you think I’ve missed.

First Lie Wins by Ashley Elston (2024)

Man, do I enjoy this book. Its narrator, the morally iffy Evie Porter, is great company. Evie is a con artist who moves from town to town and identity to identity, all under orders from her boss, the mysterious Mr. Smith. Her latest assignment has taken her to Lake Forbing, Louisiana, where she has been told to figure out Ryan Sumner for reasons she doesn’t actually know. She is succeeding—she’s moved in with Ryan and, behind his back, is digging through his life. The problem, and this is very much not the goal, is that she not only enjoys sleeping with Ryan, she actually likes him. What makes the novel work is Evie’s voice: smart, slippery, funny, and never so charming that you forget she is dangerous. Everyone I’ve recommended it to has loved it.

Broken Country by Clare Leslie Hall (2025)

Broken Country had buzz before it was even published. It sparked a bidding war and was instantly optioned by Hello Sunshine, Reese Witherspoon’s production company. It reads like a thriller, but it lingers like literary fiction. A dual-timeline novel built around a love triangle, it is really about grief, class, secrecy, and the choices people spend the rest of their lives trying to survive. If you love Tana French, you’ll recognize the appeal: Broken Country is a mystery driven as much by character and regret as by plot.

We Are All Guilty Here by Karin Slaughter (2025)

Karin Slaughter—her real name—was born to write thrillers. Her 25 novels have sold more than 40 million copies worldwide and been adapted for television more than once. We can thank her, among other things, for the diverting Will Trent. I have read almost all her books and, though I can rarely put them down, many contain more violence against women than I enjoy. (I also think Sara and Will, the leads in her long-running series, have run out of steam.) I opened this one with apprehension. This proved unwarranted. We Are All Guilty Here is one of Slaughter’s strongest books: well plotted, emotionally sharp, and full of the messy family loyalties she writes so well.

Dissection of a Murder by Jo Murray (2026)

The advance reader copy of Dissection of a Murder arrived with quite the announcement: the novel, a debut, had already been optioned as the inspiration for the upcoming second season of Presumed Innocent. The setup is excellent: a young barrister is handed the murder case that could make or ruin her career. She’ll be arguing against her husband, a man who never loses in court, and her own client refuses to speak. The twists keep coming and, unlike so many modern thrillers, each one is earned. I love a good courtroom drama, and this one delivers. Sure, at times, it’s too much, but oh, it is riveting.

The Anniversary by Alex Finlay (2026)

Alex Finlay’s thrillers remind me of Harlan Coben’s, but with more juice. Both men are secretly writing romances—there’s always a love story underneath the suspense—and both are very good at families. The Anniversary is Finlay’s best book yet. It begins on May 1, 1992, when the lives of two teenagers, Quinn and Jules, are nearly destroyed on the same night. Each year for the next decade, on the first of May, they return to that day, still trying to understand what happened, why it happened, and who is to blame. The structure works, but Quinn and Jules are the reason the book does. The pleasure is watching them survive not just the crime, but the years after it.

Reading is personal. A book that sends one’s friends into raptures—A Gentleman in Moscow, let’s say—may strike you as absurdly twee. One that critics insist is a masterpiece—perhaps The Corrections—may make you so irritable you begin resenting not only the book but everyone who has ever praised it. Like all art, the books you revere are finally just that: the books you revere.

A few years ago, The New York Times published its list of the 100 best books of this century. I had read many of the novels they chose—the list included both fiction and nonfiction—and, whatever else may be said for it, it is not a list I would have made.

So I made my own. You can thank me for stopping at 25.*

These are the novels I see as classics of tomorrow. They are books that astonished me when I first read them and held up when I read them again. Each has characters I have never forgotten, plots that kept me absorbed, and sentences that made me stop and swoon. I have not, of course, read every novel published in the past twenty-five years. This is not the canon. It is the list I can honestly make.

I’ve listed them in chronological order and offered no explanations. I’m curious to know what you think of my choices—and which books would be on your list.

Here they are.

• Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling (July 8, 2000)

• The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman (October 10, 2000)

• Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi (2000)

• Atonement by Ian McEwan (2001)

• Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage by Alice Munro (2001)**

• Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides (September 4, 2002)

• The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini (May 29, 2003)

• Saints at the River by Ron Rash (2004)

• Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (2005)

• Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese (February 2009)

• Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel (April 30, 2009)

• The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet by David Mitchell (May 13, 2010)

• Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins (August 24, 2010)

• 11/22/63 by Stephen King (November 8, 2011)

• Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (May 24, 2012)

• All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr (May 6, 2014)

• Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel (September 9, 2014)

• Pachinko by Min Jin Lee (February 7, 2017)

• Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders (February 14, 2017)

• Circe by Madeline Miller (April 10, 2018)

• The Dutch House by Ann Patchett (September 24, 2019)

• Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin (July 5, 2022)

• The Light Pirate by Lily Brooks-Dalton (2022)

• Small Mercies by Dennis Lehane (April 25, 2023)

• Wild Dark Shore by Charlotte McConaghy (March 4, 2025)

*It did not escape my notice that there are no Black authors on this list. Had I expanded the list to another 25 years, there would be plenty. I’d have included The Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison, The Color Purple by Alice Walker, Roots by Alex Haley, and The Women of Brewster Place by Gloria Naylor at the very least. There are several current Black authors I really like—Walter Mosley, Attica Locke, S. A. Cosby, Talia Hibbert, Jasmine Guillory—but they all write genre fiction and very of that made my list.

**Yes, this is a collection of short stories but, for me, it functions as a novel.

Illumination Night was my favorite book for a decade of my life. I’ve read it at least four times. Each time, I am enchanted. The novel tells the story of Vonny and Andre, their son Simon, Elizabeth, an old lady who lives next door, and Jody, Elizabeth’s rebellious granddaughter. There’s also a giant who hides from the world while tending chickens. All live in Chilmark on Martha’s Vineyard.

As the book begins, Vonny and Andre are at a strained time in their marriage. Their son, Simon, is abnormally short for his age and Vonny not only worries about him, she worries about everything, so much so that she becomes unable to leave the house. Andre loves Vonny, but, increasingly, he’s unable to understand her. He becomes withdrawn and spends much of his time restoring old motorcycles in the garage.

Their neighbor, seventy-three-year-old Elizabeth, is recovering from having jumped out of her upstairs window--she momentarily believed she could fly. She needs someone to care for her and chooses her 16 year old granddaughter Jody who is as reckless as wildfire. Elizabeth was never close to Jody’s mother but she and Jody meet each other’s needs as Jody finds her way to adulthood and Elizabeth finds her way to the finish of her long life.

These characters, achingly and accurately rendered, alter one another. Jody, who sometimes babysits Simon, has a disastrous lust for Andre which Vonny fears will destroy her marriage. And yet the two women become friends, united by their feelings for Simon. Simon, who watched Elizabeth jump, is determined to grow. But as he gets to know Jody and the Giant, his perspective on growing up begins to expand. As for the Giant and Jody, well, their relationship will remake them both.

Hoffman explores the connections and conflicts in desire and danger, love and death, laughter and tears, fear and contentment. Her empathy for her characters is unparalleled. For years Hoffman has been dismissed as something less than a serious author--and, yes, I blame the patriarchy--and that’s always pissed me off. Over the past five decades, she’s mined the myriad magic of women’s lives using language that verges on poetry. I don’t always love her books, but they’re a damn sight better than the endless NYT best-sellers, too often penned by those who believe that love, joy, and kindness themselves are fairy tales. Hoffman knows they’re not, that every life has the potential for beauty and wonder. I’ve read most of her books and many are excellent. This one, to me, is one of her very best.

Alix Harrow’s latest offering, Starling House, transports readers to the heart of Eden, Kentucky, a town wrestling with the ghosts of its past—racism, environmental decay, and the decline of coal mining. Against this backdrop stands Starling House, a foreboding gothic mansion with a sinister reputation. Harrow’s narrative deftly weaves together elements of a hero’s journey (times two), supernatural intrigue, and a deft exploration of love and connection.

At the center of this narrative is Opal McCoy, a young woman whose life is mired in hardship. Working a dispiriting job at Tractor Supply and sharing a rundown hotel room with her gifted younger brother, Jasper, Opal has long abandoned any dreams of a brighter future for herself. Her determination lies in securing a better life for Jasper, whose brilliance shines as a beacon of hope in their otherwise gloomy existence. Yet, Starling House, a place most in town dare not approach, inexplicably draws Opal in her dreams.

Arthur Starling, the last surviving member of the enigmatic Starling family, is the guardian of the haunted mansion. His solemn duty is to protect the house and its surroundings from the menacing Beasts of the Underland. Harrow artfully paints Arthur as a man isolated by his responsibilities, doomed to follow in the footsteps of his ancestors who perished in the same quest. When Opal disregards his warnings and breaches the gates of Starling House, their lives become inexorably intertwined.

The chemistry between Opal and Arthur is palpable, an ever-present undercurrent of attraction, mistrust, and vulnerability. Their relationship, marked by secrecy and heated exchanges, unfurls gradually amidst the backdrop of supernatural threats, corporate greed, and the town’s painful history.

However, Starling House is more than a love story; it is a captivating tale of self-discovery within the eerie confines of the mansion’s hidden chambers. As Opal navigates the mysteries and enchantments concealed within Starling House, readers are treated to a richly atmospheric experience that blurs the lines between reality and fantasy.

Harrow’s writing is both evocative and lucid, immersing readers in the labyrinthine corridors and mystical incantations of the house. Her narrative doesn’t shy away from tackling weighty themes, such as environmental degradation, corporate avarice, and the darkness within human nature. As Opal and Arthur confront supernatural threats and the formidable Gravely Power, a corporation that holds the town in its grip, the stakes couldn’t be higher.

Starling House is a genre-defying tapestry—a mesmerizing blend of gothic haunted house tale, intricate puzzle, and a love story that pulses with intensity. Harrow’s storytelling prowess shines through, and readers will find themselves irresistibly drawn into the enchanting world she has crafted.

Prepare to be spellbound.

This is the second of three lists outlining my thirty favorite thriller/mysteries of all time. The lists are in chronological order—this one covers books from 2010 to 2024.

Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3) by Tana French (2010)

I’ve read every book French has written. Thus far, out of the ten, I’ve loved eight, thought one was quite good, and, startlingly, disliked one. (The Witch Elm) Thus, picking my favorite(s) of French’s is tough. I’ve chosen two, the first of which is Faithful Place, the third book in her Dublin Murder Squad series. It’s the story of murder, sure, but the ways in which French explores love, loss, memory, and family make the book so much more than just a thriller. It’s a flat out superb read.

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (2012)

I adored Gone Girl. I am grateful I read it in the era where spoilers were easy to avoid—I can still remember gaping at the very first paragraph of Part Two. It was a book that as soon as I’d read it, I wanted to do so again. Flynn’s precision with both plot and words riveted me. Everything about the novel, including its morally ambiguous framework, worked for me. If I could just pick ten favorite thrillers of all time, Gone Girl would be on the list.

I Let You Go by Clare Mackintosh (2014)

Mackintosh’s debut is a meticulously written shocker. The book is divided into two very different parts—Part One opens with a hit and run and then shows you how the crime weighs on the lives of the trying-and-failing-to-cope mother as well as the detectives determined to find the killer. Part Two opens with a twist—it made me gasp—and then deconstructs all you thought you knew about what happened in Part One. The novel is the best kind of clever—by its end, almost every question you had is answered, smartly. I’ve read all Mackintosh’s subsequent thrillers—I love her DC Ffion Morgan series; this one is a great place to start.

The Dry (Aaron Falk, #1) by Jane Harper (2016)

Jane Harper had been a journalist for a decade when she decided she wanted to write fiction. So, she did what many of us do when we want to learn a new skill: She took an online course. It must have been a hell of a course because her debut novel The Dry–which she wrote in 12 weeks–became a bestseller. It was my favorite thriller of 2017. Set in rural drought-devastated Australia—you’ll feel the dust float up from the page—it’s a searing portrayal of family, community, and privation. It’s a gem.

Conviction by Denise Mina (2019)

This best seller by Mina, one of the best Scottish writers around, is a wild rumpus of a read; funny, astute, and so smartly plotted I found myself thinking oh no she didn’t in the best way possible. As the novel begins, Anna McLean, an upper middle class Glasgow housewife is bored with her comfortable life, and spends her mornings drinking coffee and listening to true-crime podcasts–the latest about a family murdered on an exploding yacht (the Dana). By the end of the second chapter, her life has blown up spectacularly, she’s on the run with the least likely of sidekicks, trying to solve what really happened on the Dana, and is finally coming to terms with her past. It’s a blast.

Long Bright River by Liz Moore (2020)

Liz Moore rocketed to superstardom with this book. The novel made real the horror of the opiate crisis–the thousand people who overdose every week, the families destroyed by addiction. The book is more than a grim urban Hillbilly Elegy. Moore’s characters are layered–both tragic and heroic–and, despite their contradictions, worth rooting for. Moore is an excellent storyteller—I’d argue her storytelling here is as good as her superb world building. There’s a lot of buzz right now about her next novel, The God of the Woods. Both are winning reads. Still, Long Bright River is the better book.

False Witness by Karin Slaughter (2021)

I’ve read just about every one of Slaughter’s novels. Her books are genuinely, once started, impossible to put down. That said, many of her books have deeply unsettling violence, always against women, that can feel overdone. In False Witness, the crimes are disquieting but not overwhelming and the story, that of two sisters, is brilliant. Like Long Bright River, this is a story of sisters and addiction. Here, the past shapes the future unrelentingly and you’ll root for both women, one almost lost to drugs, the other trying to save them both from their fucked up past. False Witness offers the best portrayal I’ve read of how families cope—and don’t—with addiction. It’s one of Slaughter’s very best.

The Night She Disappeared by Lisa Jewell (2021)

I like almost (but not all) of Jewell’s compulsively readable thrillers. This one, Then She Was Gone, The Family Remains—all are smart, fun reads. Jewell excels at character and at—one of my favorites—the one bad choice plot. In this novel, a beloved daughter vanishes. The story of her fate, which turns out to be a story about the choices we make when young and in love, is beautifully rendered. If you’ve never read Jewell and you like character-driven mysteries, you’re missing out.

Small Mercies by Dennis Lehane (2023)

This and the basically perfect Mystic River are two of my favorite books of all time. Set in Boston in the summer of 1974 and focused on the city’s violent response to the forced integration of the city’s schools, Small Mercies is not for the sensitive reader. The main character, Mary Pat, is a bitter, alcoholic, racist who, when her daughter vanishes, takes on the Irish mob, the police, and, from her perspective, all of Boston to find her child. It’s hard to understate how deeply, in the ‘70s, many white working class people hated the Black families who’d been granted legal access to the neighborhoods, schools, and jobs that had previously for whites only. That hatred—and those who worked against it—initially fuels Mary Pat’s determination. But as she searches for her child, in Southie and beyond, it becomes clear that, what happened to Jules is more about her world—Catholic, poor, sustained and threatened by the Irish mob—than that of the blacks she first suspects. The plot is propulsive—what Lehane novel isn’t?—but Small Mercies’ true power lies in its exploration of racism, money, power, and a mother’s flawed love. It’s extraordinary.

Devil's Kitchen by Candice Fox (2024)

Candice Fox is one of Australia’s best-selling mystery writers but I’d never read her until I was given Devil’s Kitchen to review. The setup is irresistible: New York City’s fire department, especially after 9/11, is known for their heroism and skill and one team, Ladder 51, is no exception. But the crew, Ben, Jakey, Engo and their leader Matt, are also a ruthless group of brilliant thieves who use their intimate knowledge of the city’s architecture and their willingness to do whatever it takes to steal millions from banks, jewelry stores, and art galleries. Their city’s trust in them as well as their very jobs have made them some of the most successful criminals on the East Coast. The novel kicks off with the tension cranked up to eleven and never lets up. If you’re a fan of smart, fast-paced, adrenaline-fueled thrillers, Devil’s Kitchen is not to be missed.

Here’s a confession: My favorite book genre is mystery. (Sorry romance.) A great mystery/ thriller has it all: character, plot, context, and a damn good reason to keep turning the pages. Over the next week, I’ll publish three lists—25 in all, in chronological order—of what I think are the best mysteries I’ve ever read. Let me know what you think.

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie, 1939

Christie’s classic—it’s been made into at least five films and three TV series—is still the best-selling mystery of all time. It’s cunning, shocking, sly, and hasn’t an unnecessary word. I’ve read it three times and, each time, I’m more in awe of its brilliance.

Presumed Innocent by Scott Turow, 1987

When he wrote Presumed Innocent, his debut novel, Turow aimed to reinvent the murder mystery. For many readers, the novel was their first real exposure to the complex, usually morally iffy world of the criminal justice system. The book spent close to a year on the best-seller lists and has sold millions of copies. It was, when it came out, a book you absolutely did not want spoiled. (I’m still irritated at the hubris of the recent Apple TV series—if ever there was a book that did not need a new ending, Presumed Innocent is that.) None of Turow’s other books have come close to the riveting power of his first—it’s simply a marvelous read.

Postmortem (Kay Scarpetta, #1) by Patricia Daniels Cornwell, 1990

Cornwell’s debut novel is set in Richmond, Virginia and is based on a set of real, terrifying murders. It was the first mystery I’d ever read in which the most important clues were forensic—Cornwell worked in the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of Virginia. The novel is unrelentingly suspenseful—it kept me up for the nights I read it—and introduced the world to Kay Scarpetta. (Nicole Kidman is utterly wrong for the part.) The series devolved over the years, but Postmortem is a knockout of a novel.

Smilla’s Sense of Snow by Peter Høeg, 1992

Høeg’s novel introduced America to Nordic Noir. A lit fic novel masquerading as genre fiction, the book is ostensibly a murder mystery although its ending is more ambiguous than most. Its heroine is both a Greenlander and a Dane and much of the book’s power comes from its exploration of the long tail of Denmark’s colonial relationship with Greenland. Smilla is an indelible heroine—cranky, critical, and tough—and her first-person narration is mesmerizing.

Hearts and Bones (Hannah Trevor Trilogy, #1) by Margaret Lawrence, 1996

It is a tragedy that Margaret Lawrence’s Hannah Trevor series is out of print. Her heroine is loosely based on famed midwife and diarist Martha Ballard, whom many readers recently encountered in Ariel Lawhon’s fabulous The Frozen River. Here, Hannah is determined to solve the murder of a young woman found strangled. The story is set in Maine in 1786, a time when the nation was reeling from the Revolutionary War. Women had few rights and Hannah, a pregnant widow, is in a precarious place. I highly recommend reading the whole series, if you can find it.

In a Dry Season (Inspector Banks, #10) by Peter Robinson, 1999

Robinson’s Alan Banks series is superb—and the TV show is excellent as well. My favorite of them is In a Dry Season. In it, the skeleton of a woman has been discovered, during a summer of drought, in a dried-out reservoir. Years earlier, the reservoir had replaced a village flooded for the greater good. The story is more about why than who, and trust me, any time spent with Alan Banks is worthwhile.

River of Darkness (John Madden, #1) by Rennie Airth, 1999

Airth’s first novel, River of Darkness, is more than a brilliant serial killer tale. Set in rural England in the summer of 1921, when modernity with its promises and horrors was radically reshaping England, its sense of time and place is magnificent. A family is brutally murdered and John Madden, a veteran and now Inspector for Scotland Yard, is determined to know why. The novel is both a gripping story and a history lesson. All three Madden books are superb, but the first is the most stunning.

Mystic River by Dennis Lehane, 2001

I recently rewatched, for the third time, Clint Eastwood’s Mystic River. (Sean Penn gives one of the greatest performances of my lifetime.) I like the film better than the book and I adore the book. If you’ve never read Lehane, this is the place to start.

What the Dead Know by Laura Lippman, 2007

Lippman is an underrated writer. Yes, she’s won almost every award a mystery writer can, but she’s never talked about as one of the genre’s greats. (She was, for years, outgunned by her ex-husband, David Simon.) What the Dead Know is my favorite of her books. The premise is this: thirty years ago, two young sisters went to the mall and then vanished. Now, a woman claiming to be the younger of the two has surfaced. Her story, however, raises more questions than it answers, and as the novel moves between the past (the late ‘70s are expertly rendered here) and present, the truth remains murky until the very end.

Hold Tight by Harlan Coben, 2008

Harlan Coben is successful in ways few authors are. He’s written thirty-five novels, all of which have been best sellers. His works have been made into what seems like endless Netflix series and he’s sold almost 100 million books. He is a sap, in all the best ways—almost every one of his stand-alone novels is a love story wrapped in a thriller. I always enjoy his books, and if I were recommending just one, it would be Hold Tight. It’s a story about children and their parents and the early days of internet surveillance by the latter on the former. It’s a great read by a great author and seems as relevant today as it did when it was published.

For some time now, I have noticed the same fear surfacing among parents my age. They worry that their own children may one day cut them off.

I am not talking about truly abusive families. Some estrangements are necessary. Some parents are genuinely abusive and distance is a reasonable response. But much of what is now described as cruelty is nothing of the sort. It is criticism, disagreement, disappointment, inconvenience, and obligation. It is the ordinary wear and tear of family life.

It is not cruel to tell a child who dreams of becoming Taylor Swift that talent is rare and a backup plan is wise. It is not cruel to remarry when widowed even if your child would rather you not. It is not cruel to ask a child to come to family occasions that would not be their first choice. These actions may be painful, irritating, or unwelcome. But they are not abuse.

What has changed? It is not that parents have become monsters. It is that many now conflate ordinary friction with genuine mistreatment. This is more than slippery language. This fear of being cast out changes how people live. Parents become tentative and watchful, afraid that one wrong remark will be treated not as a mistake but as a wedge. Families grow more guarded, less candid, and more fragile.

I do not think the answer is to become frightened of our children or endlessly audition for their approval. We have to trust them more than that. Our children are not strangers off the street. They are ours. We know them. We can believe that even when they are angry with us, they are still capable of recognizing the difference between a flawed parent and a monstrous one. We can believe they love us as we love them.

We can also accept that we are not perfect. Every one of us will, at some point, say the wrong thing. We will fail to understand something important. We will make mistakes we cannot entirely repair. But if we are trying in good faith to love our children and raise them honestly, that matters. It matters even if the outcome is not wholly ours to control. No parent gets a guarantee. But if we trust our children and trust ourselves, we have more reason for hope than for fear.

In 1994, critics raved about Rachel Kushner’s Creation Lake. They said it was vital and profound, it consolidates Kushner’s status as one of finest novelists working in the English language, and daring, witty, and intensely cerebral.

It is not.

It is a slog: dense, meandering, routinely pointless, and filled with characters who are, without exception, deeply unlikable. It feels like the kind of book beloved by very serious people, but it’s hard to imagine anyone with a brain and a soul enjoying it. I know I didn’t.

The book begins in rural southern France in the 2010s. Our narrator, currently called Sadie Smith, is a shallow, morally bankrupt spy with breast implants--they are mentioned frequently--and bland good looks who has nothing interesting or kind to say. It’s as if Amy from Gone Girl had a supercilious child with no good reason for her horrible behavior and who has none of her mother’s sense of humor or wit. We know little about Sadie’s background other than she’s a crap human being who was dismissed by the FBI for going too far in a previous mission. She now freelances for scummy private employers which she likes better because there’s less oversight and thus she has more time to drink, sleep around, and sneer at others.

Sadie, for reasons never made clear, is currently tasked with infiltrating a commune that opposes monocrop corn farming and a megabasin, both of which, the commune believes (probably correctly), will damage the land. Sadie is looking for evidence of criminality that, if she can’t find, she’ll create. When she’s not hanging out with the commune--all of whom are equally unappealing--she’s obsessing over a trove of emails from a man named Bruno, one of the original founders of the group

Bruno, who now lives in a cave, has, over the years, sent emails to the commune on topics ranging from Neanderthals to obscure historical groups like the Cagot. (Sadie is unable to find any actual illegal ruminations in his work.) Surprisingly, these digital missives are genuinely interesting, especially when paired with quick Wikipedia searches to fill in the gaps. I’d have enjoyed this book more had it only been lessons from Bruno.

However, much of the novel focuses on Sadie and her efforts to take down the commune which she infiltrates easily. I had a hard time believing this group was capable of much of anything. The men spend their days drinking, hammering on things, and philosophizing, while the women smoke, gossip, and pay little attention to their squalling kids. Kushner presents this dynamic as the “natural order” of things, particularly in France. If I were French, I might be offended.

The book does have brief moments of dark humor and absurdity, but they’re few and far between. By the time I reached the final pages, I was skimming, hoping against hope that maybe something interesting might occur. It did not. Creation Lake feels less like a book meant to be read and enjoyed, and more like one crafted to spark discussion and win praise in rarified literary circles. Unsurprisingly, it was long-listed for the National Book Award and short-listed for the Booker.

Art whose sole aim is to remind in the know readers that everything, especially mankind, is awful is art I find dull. If a deeply cynical, chaotic tale with a disregard for humanity’s nuances is your jam, you go. But if not, Creation Lake is a waste of type and time.