Full disclosure: I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a
review. What I wish I'd also received
was a better pay-off for a story with a lot of promise. Generally, I like novels about therapists and
psychologists. The variety of patient stories, the struggle for their own
stability, and the chance of great surprise when it turns out they are much
scarier than anything you’d hear in their sessions. Not everybody can be Hannibal, but there’s always that chance that
the plaid suit and the kitchen utensils will come out by the tenth session. I
got hooked into this particular story with the promise of a mystery and an
unraveling patient-doctor relationship.
The book opens in the office of Mark Fabian, therapist for
years and corpse for hours. His head is
bashed in, his patient notes are sketchy, and oh, by the way, his closest
friends report him as having memory problems recently, so good luck with those
notes again. The chapters alternate between narrators Henry, a local cop who
gained fame from a retirement home shooting a few years previously, and Nadine,
a former patient of Fabian’s. I’m still
getting my head around a shooter in a frigging *retirement home.* Not that it’s
too farfetched these days, but what the what?
 |
| Betty White would have taken his punk ass out in a second. |
Nadine’s story alternates between the present and 1997, when
she was in therapy after a violent incident at school – with all this
backstory, you expect her underlying psychosis to be something shocking. She even writes that perversion is in her
blood (cue dramatic music). I don’t know
if the author planned something bigger to explain the build-up to the outburst and
then gave up or we’re actually supposed to be shocked by something that turns
out to be terribly garden-variety.
Henry’s side of things covers his involvement in the
shooting (he took down a shooter and is now a local hero who just wants people
to stop calling him that) and his attempt to piece together how Fabian (I kept
reading that as ‘Fabio’) wound up dead.
Oh, and his kids are getting warped by fairytales with iron shoes and decapitations. I don’t know if that’s supposed to be a
cautionary bit about your kids winding up in therapy or a suggestion for scary
stuff hidden in children’s fiction. Either way, now I want to read ‘The Red Shoes.’
Honestly, this book felt like such a tangled mess that I can
barely write this review. It started out
so readable and then just seemed to drag into wet noodles. Other crimes in the
area are mentioned, but written in an almost throw-away fashion, even though
they are suddenly a big deal for the ending.
There’s no startling reveal of some long-buried secret to explain
Nadine’s violence. There’s no startling
reveal that Henry is someone interesting.
Fabian’s murder has one of the most beige explanations I’ve ever read.
 |
| "Yes, I know, but I'm trying to look Scottish or something." |
If a book starts out crap and then ends the same way, that’s
bad. This whole bait-and-switch thing seems even worse, because now you’ve had
a chance to get excited over where things are going. Surely this will not end
in you slapping yourself awake at nine p.m. and throwing the book into the
library donation bag. Just because I was
almost asleep doesn’t mean I take the whole bait-and-switch thing lying down. I
won’t be looking for anything else by this author. Now if someone will introduce me to a nice
novel involving a suit and fork…
