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Dark Places Paperback – May 4, 2010
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From the acclaimed author of Gone Girl, “a riveting tale of true horror by a writer who has all the gifts to pull it off” (Chicago Tribune)
“Sensuous and chilling . . . a propulsive and twisty mystery.”—Entertainment Weekly
Libby Day was seven when her mother and two sisters were murdered in “The Satan Sacrifice of Kinnakee, Kansas.” She survived—and famously testified that her fifteen-year-old brother, Ben, was the killer. Twenty-five years later, the Kill Club—a secret society obsessed with notorious crimes—locates Libby and pumps her for details. They hope to discover proof that may free Ben.
Libby hopes to turn a profit off her tragic history: She’ll reconnect with the players from that night and report her findings to the club—for a fee. As Libby’s search takes her from shabby Missouri strip clubs to abandoned Oklahoma tourist towns, the unimaginable truth emerges, and Libby finds herself right back where she started—on the run from a killer.
- Print length349 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherCrown
- Publication dateMay 4, 2010
- Dimensions5.15 x 0.79 x 8.01 inches
- ISBN-100307341577
- ISBN-13978-0307341570
- Lexile measure940L
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A woman reconnects with people from her past to investigate whether her brother was truly guilty of murdering their family.Popular highlight
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“Gillian Flynn’s writing is compulsively good. I would rather read her than just about any other crime writer.”—Kate Atkinson
“Dark Places grips you from the first page and doesn't let go.”—Karin Slaughter
“With her blistering debut Sharp Objects, Gillian Flynn hit the ground running. Dark Places demonstrates that was no fluke.”—Val McDermid
“Dark Places' Libby Day may seem unpleasant company at first–she's humoring those with morbid curiosities about her family's murders in order to get money out of them–but her steely nature and sharp tongue are compelling. 'I have a meanness inside me,'she says, 'real as an organ.'Yes she does, and by the end of this pitch-black novel, after we've loosened our grip on its cover and started breathing deeply again, we're glad Flynn decided to share it.”—Jessa Crispin, NPR
“Flynn returns to the front ranks of emerging thriller writers with her aptly titled new novel . . . Those who prefer their literary bones with a little bloody meat will be riveted.”—Portland Oregonian
“Gillian Flynn may turn out to be a more gothic John Irving for the 21st century, a writer who uses both a surgeon's scalpel and a set of rusty harrow discs to rip the pretty face off middle America.”—San Jose Mercury News
“The world of this novel is all underside, all hard flinch, and Flynn’s razor-sharp prose intensifies this effect as she knuckles in on every sentence. . . . The slick plotting in Dark Places will gratify the lover of a good thriller–but so, too, will Flynn’s prose, which is ferocious and unrelenting and pure pleasure from word one.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Gillian Flynn’s second novel, Dark Places, proves that her first—Sharp Objects—was no fluke. . . . tough, surprising crime fiction that dips its toes in the deeper waters of literary fiction.”—Chicago Sun-Times
"Flynn fully inhabits Libby—a damaged woman whose world has resided entirely in her own head for the majority of her life and who is prone to dark metaphors: 'Draw a picture of my soul, and it’d be a scribble with fangs.' Half the fun of Dark Places is Libby’s swampy psychology, which Flynn leads us through without the benefit of hip waders.”—Time Out Chicago
“Deliciously creepy...Flynn follows 250-some pages of masterful plotting and character development with a speedway pileup of pulse-pounding revelations.” —Chicago Reader
“A genuinely shocking denouement.” —Romantic Times
“Sardonic, riveting . . . Like Kate Atkinson, Flynn has figured out how to fuse the believable characters, silken prose and complex moral vision of literary fiction to the structure of a crime story. . . . You can sense trouble coming like a storm moving over the prairie, but can't quite detect its shape.” —Laura Miller, Salon
“These characters are fully realized—so true they could step off the page . . . hints of what truly happened to the Day family feel painfully, teasingly paced as they forge an irresistible trail to the truth. . . . Could. Not. Stop. Reading.”—Bookreporter
“Libby’s voice is a pitch-perfect blend of surliness and emotionally charged imagery. . . . The Kansas in these pages is a bleak, deterministic place where bad blood and lies generate horrifically unintended consequences. Though there’s little redemption here, Flynn manages to unearth the humanity buried beneath the squalor.”—Bloomberg
“Set in the bleak Midwest of America, this evocation of small-town life and dysfunctional people is every bit as horribly fascinating as Capote’s journalistic retelling of a real family massacre, In Cold Blood, which it eerily resembles. This is only Flynn’ s second crime novel–her debut was the award-winning Sharp Objects–and demonstrates even more forcibly her precocious writing ability and talent for the macabre.”—Daily Mail (UK)
“Flynn’s second novel is a wonderful evocation of drab small-town life. The time-split narrative works superbly and the atmosphere is eerily macabre—Dark Places is even better than the author’s award-winning Sharp Objects.”—The Guardian (UK)
“A gritty, riveting thriller with a one-of-a-kind, tart-tongued heroine.” —Booklist (starred review)
“Flynn’s second crime thriller tops her impressive debut, Sharp Objects. . . . When the truth emerges, it’s so twisted that even the most astute readers won’t have predicted it.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Now
I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you could stomp on it. It’s the Day blood. Something’s wrong with it. I was never a good little girl, and I got worse after the murders. Little Orphan Libby grew up sullen and boneless, shuffled around a group of lesser relatives—second cousins and great-aunts and friends of friends—stuck in a series of mobile homes or rotting ranch houses all across Kansas. Me going to school in my dead sisters’ hand-me-downs: Shirts with mustardy armpits. Pants with baggy bottoms, comically loose, held on with a raggedy belt cinched to the farthest hole. In class photos my hair was always crooked—barrettes hanging loosely from strands, as if they were airborne objects caught in the tangles—and I always had bulging pockets under my eyes, drunk-landlady eyes. Maybe a grudging curve of the lips where a smile should be. Maybe.
I was not a lovable child, and I’d grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it’d be a scribble with fangs.
It was miserable, wet-bone March and I was lying in bed thinking about killing myself, a hobby of mine. Indulgent afternoon daydreaming: A shotgun, my mouth, a bang and my head jerking once, twice, blood on the wall. Spatter, splatter. “Did she want to be buried or cremated?” people would ask. “Who should come to the funeral?” And no one would know. The people, whoever they were, would just look at each other’s shoes or shoulders until the silence settled in and then someone would put on a pot of coffee, briskly and with a fair amount of clatter. Coffee goes great with sudden death.
I pushed a foot out from under my sheets, but couldn’t bring myself to connect it to the floor. I am, I guess, depressed. I guess I’ve been depressed for about twenty-four years. I can feel a better version of me somewhere in there—hidden behind a liver or attached to a bit of spleen within my stunted, childish body—a Libby that’s telling me to get up, do something, grow up, move on. But the meanness usually wins out. My brother slaughtered my family when I was seven. My mom, two sisters, gone: bang bang, chop chop, choke choke. I didn’t really have to do anything after that, nothing was expected.
I inherited $321,374 when I turned eighteen, the result of all those well-wishers who’d read about my sad story, do-gooders whose hearts had gone out to me. Whenever I hear that phrase, and I hear it a lot, I picture juicy doodle-hearts, complete with bird-wings, flapping toward one of my many crap-ass childhood homes, my little-girl self at the window, waving and grabbing each bright heart, green cash sprinkling down on me, thanks, thanks a ton! When I was still a kid, the donations were placed in a conservatively managed bank account, which, back in the day, saw a jump about every three–four years, when some magazine or news station ran an update on me. Little Libby’s Brand New Day: The Lone Survivor of the Prairie Massacre Turns a Bittersweet 10. (Me in scruffy pigtails on the possum-pissed lawn outside my Aunt Diane’s trailer. Diane’s thick tree-calves, exposed by a rare skirt, planted on the trailer steps behind me.) Brave Baby Day’s Sweet 16! (Me, still miniature, my face aglow with birthday candles, my shirt too tight over breasts that had gone D-cup that year, comic-book sized on my tiny frame, ridiculous, porny.)
I’d lived off that cash for more than thirteen years, but it was almost gone. I had a meeting that afternoon to determine exactly how gone. Once a year the man who managed the money, an unblinking, pink-cheeked banker named Jim Jeffreys, insisted on taking me to lunch, a “checkup,” he called it. We’d eat something in the twenty-dollar range and talk about my life—he’d known me since I was this-high, after all, heheh. As for me, I knew almost nothing about Jim Jeffreys, and never asked, viewing the appointments always from the same kid’s-eye view: Be polite, but barely, and get it over with. Single-word answers, tired sighs. (The one thing I suspected about Jim Jeffreys was that he must be Christian, churchy—he had the patience and optimism of someone who thought Jesus was watching.) I wasn’t due for a “checkup” for another eight or nine months, but Jim Jeffreys had nagged, leaving phone messages in a serious, hushed voice, saying he’d done all he could to extend the “life of the fund,” but it was time to think about “next steps.”
And here again came the meanness: I immediately thought about that other little tabloid girl, Jamie Something, who’d lost her family the same year—1985. She’d had part of her face burned off in a fire her dad set that killed everyone else in her family. Any time I hit the ATM, I think of that Jamie girl, and how if she hadn’t stolen my thunder, I’d have twice as much money. That Jamie Whatever was out at some mall with my cash, buying fancy handbags and jewelry and buttery department-store makeup to smooth onto her shiny, scarred face. Which was a horrible thing to think, of course. I at least knew that.
Finally, finally, finally I pulled myself out of bed with a stage- effect groan and wandered to the front of my house. I rent a small brick bungalow within a loop of other small brick bungalows, all of which squat on a massive bluff overlooking the former stockyards of Kansas City. Kansas City, Missouri, not Kansas City, Kansas. There’s a difference.
My neighborhood doesn’t even have a name, it’s so forgotten. It’s called Over There That Way. A weird, subprime area, full of dead ends and dog crap. The other bungalows are packed with old people who’ve lived in them since they were built. The old people sit, gray and pudding-like, behind screen windows, peering out at all hours. Sometimes they walk to their cars on careful elderly tiptoes that make me feel guilty, like I should go help. But they wouldn’t like that. They are not friendly old people—they are tight-lipped, pissed-off old people who do not appreciate me being their neighbor, this new person. The whole area hums with their disapproval. So there’s the noise of their disdain and there’s the skinny red dog two doors down who barks all day and howls all night, the constant background noise you don’t realize is driving you crazy until it stops, just a few blessed moments, and then starts up again. The neighborhood’s only cheerful sound I usually sleep through: the morning coos of toddlers. A troop of them, round-faced and multilayered, walk to some daycare hidden even farther in the rat’s nest of streets behind me, each clutching a section of a long piece of rope trailed by a grown-up. They march, penguin-style, past my house every morning, but I have not once seen them return. For all I know, they troddle around the entire world and return in time to pass my window again in the morning. Whatever the story, I am attached to them. There are three girls and a boy, all with a fondness for bright red jackets—and when I don’t seen them, when I oversleep, I actually feel blue. Bluer. That’d be the word my mom would use, not something as dramatic as depressed. I’ve had the blues for twenty-four years.
I put on a skirt and blouse for the meeting, feeling dwarfy, my grown-up, big-girl clothes never quite fitting. I’m barely five foot—four foot, ten inches in truth, but I round up. Sue me. I’m thirty-one, but people tend to talk to me in singsong, like they want to give me fingerpaints.
I headed down my weedy front slope, the neighbor’s red dog launching into its busybody barking. On the pavement near my car are the smashed skeletons of two baby birds, their flattened beaks and wings making them look reptilian. They’ve been there for a year. I can’t resist looking at them each time I get in my car. We need a good flood, wash them away.
Two elderly women were talking on the front steps of a house across the street, and I could feel them refusing to see me. I don’t know anyone’s name. If one of those women died, I couldn’t even say, “Poor old Mrs. Zalinsky died.” I’d have to say, “That mean old bitch across the street bit it.”
Feeling like a child ghost, I climbed into my anonymous midsized car, which seems to be made mostly of plastic. I keep waiting for someone from the dealership to show up and tell me the obvious: “It’s a joke. You can’t actually drive this. We were kidding.” I trance-drove my toy car ten minutes downtown to meet Jim Jeffreys, rolling into the steakhouse parking lot twenty minutes late, knowing he’d smile all kindly and say nothing about my tardiness.
I was supposed to call him from my cell phone when I arrived so he could trot out and escort me in. The restaurant—a great, old-school KC steakhouse—is surrounded by hollowed-out buildings that concern him, as if a troop of rapists were permanently crouched in their empty husks awaiting my arrival. Jim Jeffreys is not going to be The Guy Who Let Something Bad Happen to Libby Day. Nothing bad can happen to BRAVE BABY DAY, LITTLE GIRL LOST, the pathetic, red-headed seven-year-old with big blue eyes, the only one who survived the PRAIRIE MASSACRE, the KANSAS CRAZE-KILLINGS, the FARMHOUSE SATAN SACRIFICE. My mom, two older sisters, all butchered by Ben. The only one left, I’d fingered him as the murderer. I was the cutie-pie who brought my Devil- worshiping brother to justice. I was big news. The Enquirer put my tearful photo on the front page with the headline ANGEL FACE.
I peered into the rearview mirror and could see my baby face even now. My freckles were faded, and my teeth straightened, but my nose was still pug and my eyes kitten-round. I dyed my hair now, a white-blonde, but the red roots had grown in. It looked like my scalp was bleeding, especially in the late-day sunlight. It looked gory. I lit a cigarette. I’d go for months without smoking, and then remember: I need a cigarette. I’m like that, nothing sticks.
“Let’s go, Baby Day,” I said aloud. It’s what I call myself when I’m feeling hateful.
I got out of the car and smoked my way toward the restaurant, holding the cigarette in my right hand so I didn’t have to look at the left hand, the mangled one. It was almost evening: Migrant clouds floated in packs across the sky like buffalo, and the sun was just low enough to spray everything pink. Toward the river, between the looping highway ramps, obsolete grain elevators sat vacant, dusk-black and pointless.
I walked across the parking lot all by myself, atop a constellation of crushed glass. I was not attacked. It was, after all, just past 5 p.m. Jim Jeffreys was an early-bird eater, proud of it.
He was sitting at the bar when I walked in, sipping a pop, and the first thing he did, as I knew he would, was grab his cell phone from his jacket pocket and stare at it as if it had betrayed him.
“Did you call?” he frowned.
“No, I forgot,” I lied.
He smiled then. “Well, anyway. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here, sweetheart. Ready to talk turkey?”
He slapped two bucks on the bartop, and maneuvered us over to a red leather booth sprouting yellow stuffing from its cracks. The broken slits scraped the backs of my legs as I slid in. A whoof of cigarette stink burped out of the cushions.
Jim Jeffreys never drank liquor in front of me, and never asked me if I wanted a drink, but when the waiter came I ordered a glass of red wine and watched him try not to look surprised, or disappointed, or anything but Jim Jeffreys–like. What kind of red? the waiter asked, and I had no idea, really—I never could remember the names of reds or whites, or which part of the name you were supposed to say out loud, so I just said, House. He ordered a steak, I ordered a double-stuffed baked potato, and then the waiter left and Jim Jeffreys let out a long dentist-y sigh and said, “Well, Libby, we are entering a very new and different stage here together.”
“So how much is left?” I asked, thinking saytenthousandsayten thousand.
“Do you read those reports I send you?”
“I sometimes do,” I lied again. I liked getting mail but not reading it; the reports were probably in a pile somewhere in my house.
“Have you listened to my messages?”
“I think your cell phone is messed up. It cuts out a lot.” I’d listened just long enough to know I was in trouble. I usually tuned out after Jim Jeffreys’ first sentence, which always began: Your friend Jim Jeffreys here, Libby . . .
Jim Jeffreys steepled his fingers and stuck his bottom lip out. “There is 982 dollars and 12 cents left in the fund. As I’ve mentioned before, had you been able to replenish it with any kind of regular work, we’d have been able to keep it afloat, but . . .” he tossed out his hands and grimaced, “things didn’t work out that way.”
Product details
- Publisher : Crown; Reprint edition (May 4, 2010)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 349 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0307341577
- ISBN-13 : 978-0307341570
- Lexile measure : 940L
- Item Weight : 9.4 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.15 x 0.79 x 8.01 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #20,070 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #984 in Women Sleuths (Books)
- #2,166 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- #2,946 in Suspense Thrillers
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Gillian Flynn was the chief TV critic for ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY and now writes full-time. Her first novel SHARP OBJECTS was the winner of two CWA DAGGERS and was shortlisted for the GOLD DAGGER. Her latest novel, GONE GIRL, is a massive No.1 bestseller. The film adaptation of GONE GIRL, directed by David Fincher and starring Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike, won the Hollywood Film Award 2014.
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My Thoughts: No Spoilers
Rating: 4-5 Stars
Okay, so, this is the first Gillian Flynn novel I have ever had the privilege of reading, and I must say I was not disappointed. This was a very taut, fast paced, psychological thriller that kept me guessing until the very end. I've read some reviews where readers have found the characters in the novel unlikable or they couldn't really connect to them some what.
That was not the case for me. I connected with each character from the very beginning. Libby, the main protagonist throughout the novel is a very traumatized young woman. Her defenses against everyone and everything is to shut down, and ignore them after the hell she's been through. I related to Libby from the very first page. Her whit and dark sense of humor reminded me a lot of myself which made me connect with her even more, and made me want to learn her story.
If you're looking for an amazing light easy read, this is your go to book. Gillian Flynn surprised me countless times throughout the book. Her writing is flawless and she adds a sense of mystery and suspense with each chapter. I HIGHLY recommend this book!
My Thoughts: Spoilers Included
This book gutted me, and left me with a serious book hangover. After finding out what really happened of the night of January 3, 1985 I felt so angry, heartbroken, and sad for the Day family. They seemed like such a normal family, I mean they had their fair share of problems, but what family doesn't? The Day's had little money, they lived a seemingly poor life. No new clothes, hardly any food in their home. I have so many feelings for each character in this novel that I would like to take a minute and talk about each one.
Patty, was a mother to four children, Libby, Ben, Debby, Michelle, struggling to make ends meet on her broken down families farm. She had no money, no husband, well she had an ex husband Runner, but he was a drug addict and lowlife that I wanted to punch in the face several times. Her farm was being ceased, and her son was in serious trouble, for supposedly molesting a middle school girl named, Krissy. She was frazzled, and frantic during most of her chapters in the book, trying to find Ben before the police did and try and figure out how to come up with the money to save her home and provide for her family. I really felt for this woman, she had a lot on her plate and honestly didn't know how to handle half the situations life put her in I think. She was desperate for money, and wanted to save her children from living a horrible life, so she hired someone to kill her so her kids would receive her life insurance policy. Only, things didn't go according to plan on that night, and her daughter Debby ended up waking in the middle of the night to find her mother stabbed in the kitchen, forcing the man that was hired to kill Debby too, because she saw his face.
Libby, was the youngest of the Day clan and the main protagonist throughout the novel. When she was seven she "saw" her brother Ben murder her entire family on January 3, 1985, except she didn't see anything, she heard it, but still the police coerced her into testifying that her fifteen year old brother Ben had committed the crimes, ultimately putting him in jail. Twenty or twenty five years later Libby is an emotional wreck, unable to properly function because of the events of that night. She hides in her home and does as little as possible just barely making it by, much like her mother. She's running out of money, the money she got from donors and book profits after the murders is now gone. A guy named Lyle offers her money to look into what really happened to her family on that night, and so she does. I loved Libby, honestly, I did. Her sarcasm and dark sense of humor made me connect with her because I'm the same way.
Ben, was the oldest sibling, and the main suspect in his families murder. He was convicted and sentenced to life in prison for crimes he didn't commit. Ben was an odd kid, a loner, a freak. He had dark thoughts, but never acted on any of them until his girlfriend Diondra and her friend Trey made him murder a cow as a sacrifice to Satan. He let himself become so closed off from the world that when put in situations he didn't know how to respond, which pissed me off. He was your typical teenaged boy, he defied his mom, wanted sex, and did drugs. He was very influenced by the people around him, always giving in to peer pressure. He needed some damn will power, something!
He stood by and watched his girlfriend Diondra kill his little sister Michelle, strangle her because she knew about him getting Diondra pregnant. He did nothing, he didn't stop her, and for that I hated him by the end of the book. He was a follower and did whatever Diondra told him too, and she loved it. I wanted to feel for Ben, and I did, until i found out he let his pregnant cranked up crazy girlfriend murder his little sister. Sure, Michelle was a little blackmailer and a nosy kid, but did she deserve to be killed, no!
Ben heard his mother being shot, and his sister being hacked to pieces, but did nothing. By the end of the novel, all the sympathy I had for him vanished and turned to hatred. He may not have killed his family, but he didn't try and stop it either. He was a coward, and yeah I know he was just kid, but still. It was obvious by the end of the book, he did feel guilty for never being able to stand up to anyone and letting it happen, it was why he protected Diondra and went to jail for a crime he didn't commit.
The police in this novel were a freaking joke. All the evidence gathered from the murder scene was pushed aside or looked over. The signs were there that Ben hadn't killed everyone. Someone else was involved. But, everyone involved/working on the case wanted to make a name for themselves and brushed him over and the evidence.
This book was twisted, but in the best possible way.
The title pretty much says it all. This book takes the reader to some very Dark Places. Within the book's 368 pages, you will encounter Satanism, gruesome murders, frank sexuality, drugs, alcohol, child molestation, prostitution, and foul language. There is a whole lot of ugly in this book. It's all realistic and I don't believe that the author, Gillian Flynn, revels in any of it exactly, but she certainly doesn't shy away from details that other authors might find distasteful.
The characters in Dark Places are remarkably well-realized. Most books, you're lucky if you can remember the name of the main character when the story is done. After reading Dark Places, I remembered the names of practically every character. Libby Day is one of the most compelling leads in any novel I've read this year. From her kleptomania to her self-described "meanness," Libby is far from being traditionally "likable" but the first person narration makes us feel almost everything that she does and forces the reader to empathize with her almost in spite of ourselves.
Surprisingly, Libby Day is not Dark Place's most compelling character. From the tempestuous Diondra to Runner Day, Libby's leach of a father, who makes Frank Gallagher on Shameless seem like a tame parody, the characters are simultaneously fascinating to read about and people we would want to stay far away from in real life. Flynn's ability as a prose writer is also quite strong. She has a knack for giving gritty details that fill in many cracks in our pictures of the characters and their lives.
The story is told with flashbacks that gradually reveal the answers to the mystery as the story progresses. The suspense and horror we feel as we realize what the flashbacks are leading up to is mirrored by the suspense and horror felt by Libby Day in the present as she seeks to solve the mystery. By the time the murders are described, your anticipation and fear will be at a fever pitch and you will have trouble containing your emotions.
This is the kind of book that sucks you in and keeps you reading long after you intended to stop and haunts you for days afterwards. The work is moody, adult and complex and depressing if the truth be told. I had to shake the book off me whenever I stopped reading like a cat shakes itself to get dry. It clung to my mind and heart and was never far from my mind on the days that I read it.
Do I recommend it? Well, if you've read everything I said and still want to read it, then I certainly recommend it to you. If, on the other hand, you're wondering if you can handle it or if it's too dark and disturbing for your taste, I recommend you look elsewhere, cause reading it is an experience you can't take back. This book will take you to Dark Places and won't let you leave them behind you.
Top reviews from other countries
Setting that minor complaint aside, “Dark Places” has a fabulous cast of well-developed and easily identifiable characters. Protagonist Libby Day is brilliantly set out; the turmoil and torment of her life a constant element, driving the story at a rapid pace. All the other players are certainly essential to the plot, although certainly not all of them are ‘lovable’ (some fall below the level of ‘likable’) but I leave it to you to decide their placement. Your opinion is almost certain to differ from mine.
There is a certain amount of time shifting between present and long-past events, but this is confined, for the most part, within the occurring chapter. There is an energy to the story that will keep the reader engaged and anxious to discover what’s next in a story line that offers some interesting twists and surprises.
In the end, and despite my minor complaint, I found this book to be a deserving 5-star candidate.