The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix

 

Synopsis From Dust Jacket:

In horror movies, the final girl is the one who's left standing when the credits roll. The one who fought back, defeated the killer, and avenged her friends. The one who emerges bloodied but victorious. But after the sirens fade and the audience moves on, what happens to her?

Lynette Tarkington is a real-life final girl who survived a massacre twenty-two years ago, and it has defined every day of her life since. And she's not alone. For more than a decade she's been meeting with five other actual final girls and their therapists in a support group for those who survived the unthinkable, putting their lives back together, piece by piece. That is until one of the women misses a meeting and Lynette's worst fears are realized—someone knows about the group and is determined to take their lives apart, piece by piece. 

But the thing about these final girls is that they have each other now, and no matter how bad the odds, how dark the night, how sharp the knife, they will never, ever give up. 

The very first movie I remember seeing in a theater was Dawn of the Dead. My mom loved it, so when it was rereleased years later, she took me along. I saw Creepshow at the drive-in, but had to turn around and watch The Sword in the Stone on another screen during one particular scene that will remain unspoken.

I grew up on horror: Children of the Corn, Friday the 13th, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Halloween. These weren’t just movies, they were lessons in survival, in what it means to be the one who makes it out. One of the first movies I saw on my own was Bad Dreams, and that giant fan scene has lived rent-free in my brain ever since, a moment I still haven’t quite shaken.

I’m laying all of this out so you understand exactly where I’m coming from. I loved The Final Girl Support Group.

This book reads like the twisted sequel to every slasher I’ve ever seen — not the movies themselves, but what happens after the credits roll. The five women at its center survived everything the genre throws at you: summer camp massacres, sorority house bloodbaths, a home invasion that wiped out an entire family, miles of road turned into a moving nightmare. And then there’s Lynette — the book’s version of Laurie Strode — a woman shaped by a killer who tore through her town and left her to live in the aftermath. If you’ve seen the recent Halloween trilogy, you already understand what that kind of survival does to a person.

In the wrong hands, this could have been a straightforward slasher novel, something predictable, something easy to put down. In the hands of Grady Hendrix, it becomes something sharper and more deliberate. He shifts the focus from the violence itself to what lingers after it, memory, damage, and the way the past refuses to stay buried.

Because if horror teaches you anything, it’s that the past is never really dead.

Challenges: Cloak and Dagger 

What Feasts at Night by T. Kingfisher

 

Synopsis From Dust Jacket:

After the terrifying ordeal at the Usher manor, Alex Easton feels as if they just survived another war. All they crave is rest, routine, and sunshine, but instead, as a favor to Angus and Miss Potter, they find themselves heading to their family hunting lodge, deep in the cold, damp forests of their home country, Gallacia. 

In theory, one can find relaxation in even the coldest and dampest of Gallacian autumns, but when Easton arrives, they find the caretaker dead, the lodge in disarray, and the grounds troubled by a strange, uncanny silence. The villagers whisper that breath-stealing monster from folklore has taken up residence in Easton’s home. Easton knows better than to put too much stock in local superstitions, but they can tell something is not quite right in their home...or in their dreams. 

Let me tell you a story, and if it gets too long, you can skip it. Promise. One of the few places my mom stopped long enough, as we moved more times than I can count — pre-carnival years — was Salem, OR. We lived there for at least a full year before moving further north, but that’s not the story. The house we lived in is.

It was a yellowish beige house on the corner of State St. and some random street I don’t remember the name of. It dead-ended at a railroad track, if that helps anyone place it. Salem wasn’t the safest area to live in the mid-1980s, and our neighborhood was pretty rough… but that’s not really the point.

This little, unassuming house was odd from the start. I had never sleepwalked before, but I started within the first week of living there. The attic opened into the garage, and if you threw a rock up there, it came back down a few minutes later. My mom kept our dog in the garage — not the attic — and it would go absolutely insane, barking up at the attic like its soul was in jeopardy.

One night, some kids from the neighborhood were spending the night, camped out in the living room, when we all heard what sounded like a power saw starting up in the attic. There wasn’t a kid there who didn’t bolt for home. Then there’s the time I watched a crutch travel across a wall in my mom’s bedroom. That one stuck with me.

Needless to say, my mom did a little digging, and while I won’t go into the details, that house had every right to be haunted.

I’m not here to convince you that ghosts are real or that haunted houses exist. I’m just telling you all of that so you understand why I love haunted house stories as much as I do. You’d think an experience like that would’ve sent me running in the opposite direction, but it did the exact opposite. I can’t get enough of them — especially when they lean more Gothic, like What Feasts at Night by T. Kingfisher.

When I realized the sequel to What Moves the Dead was set in a haunted hunting lodge, I was basically screaming in delight like a six-year-old at a My Little Pony birthday party.

I loved What Moves the Dead so much that, despite all that excitement, I was a little hesitant going into this one. I was worried a second outing with Alex — which still somehow doesn’t involve us sitting down for tea — wouldn’t live up to my probably overinflated expectations.

Thankfully, Kingfisher didn’t let me down. I enjoyed the hell out of this.

I tore through this in one sitting, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get under my skin a little. There’s a slow, suffocating dread here that just keeps building until you realize you’ve been holding your breath right along with Alex. That dread comes through most in how the haunting itself plays out.

The way she crafts this haunting genuinely got under my skin. Alex is attacked by a vengeful spirit that literally steals their breath as they sleep, slowly wearing down their already fever-racked body. And as if that isn’t bad enough, they’re trapped in a nightmarish dreamscape that forces them to relive the worst atrocities they experienced during the war — along with all the guilt and regret that comes with it. To fight back, Alex has to work through those memories head-on instead of avoiding them, which makes this feel more personal.

Maybe that’s why this worked so well for me. That house in Salem never really left me — that feeling that something is there, just out of sight, but very real. This book taps into that same kind of quiet, creeping dread.

Some haunted houses try to scare you.

This one feels a little too much like home.

The Body in the Library by Agatha Christie

 

Synopsis From Dust Jacket: 

Colonel and Mrs. Bantry are shocked when they wake up one morning to find the dead body of a young platinum blonde on the floor of their library. Nobody in the village of St. Mary Mead seems to know who she is, but everyone has a theory about the crime. The ensuing investigation follows a twisted trail from the quiet village to an upscale hotel in the nearby town of Danemouth, where the victim worked as a ballroom dancer and bridge hostess. As the local inspectors sift through emerging clues to identify a suspect, Miss Jane Marple, St. Mary Meade's resident sleuth, always seems to be one step ahead of them. 

First of all, forgive the slightly askew book cover — I love this edition far too much not to use it. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t manage to take a perfectly lined-up photo of it, and eventually I decided close was good enough. 

If I’m remembering correctly, I haven’t reread The Body in the Library in ten or twenty years, so it’s been a while since I’ve spent time with this convoluted caper. It had been long enough that I found myself genuinely surprised by the fiendish little scheme Miss Marple exposed. While I remembered the mastermind behind the murder, I had completely forgotten how it was accomplished, so I took great delight in letting Miss Marple fill in the blanks for me all over again.

Agatha Christie had a mind like no other. She gives you every clue you need and then buries them in just enough distraction to make you doubt your own intelligence. Somehow, when the final reveal arrives, you don’t feel tricked — you feel outmatched. That balance is precisely why she has been my favorite author since I was given two of her books for Christmas in the fifth grade.

I do wish Miss Marple were a little more at the forefront in this one. Too much of the story belongs to the professional inspectors and not quite enough to her quiet deductions. But that’s a normal reaction for me — I almost always want more Miss Marple in her books and less Hercule Poirot in his. I suppose I’ve always enjoyed the old lady with a knitting basket more than a man who refers to himself in the third person.

Challenges: Cloak and Dagger, Mount TBR

Eight Perfect Murders by Peter Swanson

Synopsis From Dust Jacket:

Years ago, bookseller and mystery aficionado Malcolm Kershaw compiled a list of the genre’s most unsolvable murders—which he titled “Eight Perfect Murders”—chosen from among the best of the best, including Agatha Christie’s A. B. C. Murders, Patricia Highsmith’s Strangers on a Train, and Ira Levin’s Death Trap. 

But no one is more surprised than Mal, now the owner of the Old Devils Bookstore in Boston, when an FBI agent comes knocking on his door one snowy day in February. She’s looking for information about a series of unsolved murders that look eerily similar to the killings on Mal’s old list. And the agent isn’t the only one interested in this bookseller who spends almost every night at home reading. The killer is out there, watching his every move—a diabolical threat who knows way too much about Mal’s personal history, especially the secrets he’s never told anyone, even his recently deceased wife.

To protect himself, Mal begins looking into possible suspects . . . and sees a killer in everyone around him. But Mal doesn’t count on the investigation leaving a trail of death in its wake. Suddenly, a series of shocking twists leaves more victims dead—and the noose around Mal’s neck grows so tight he might never escape.

Malcolm is another of those characters I relish spending time with. This was my third visit to the Old Devils Bookstore, and like the first two times, I found myself wanting to settle into a comfortable chair with one of my favorite mysteries, the shop cat Nero purring away in my lap, and spend the day visiting with Mal as he works between customers. He has an aura about him that I find oddly comforting, and I can easily imagine us becoming fast friends. The fact that he’s about as unreliable as any narrator can be just makes me love him more.

I’m a sucker for unreliable narrators, and Mal does not disappoint. Spending extended time with him lets you know the man has secrets. You may not know what those secrets are — or just how painful they might be — but it’s clear that everything is not right in his world.

I’m not sure how much of my love for this book comes from my genuine fondness for Mal or from the way Peter Swanson weaves a deep love and respect for the Golden Age of classic mysteries into a tale of faulty memories, buried secrets, and a few “perfect” murders thrown in for good measure. Either way, it’s a story anchored by a character I thoroughly enjoy — one I’m sure I’ll be visiting again and again in the years to come.

Challenges: Calendar of Crime, Cloak and Dagger 

N or M? by Agatha Christie

 

Synopsis From Back Cover:

It is World War II, and while the RAF struggles to keep the Luftwaffe at bay, Britain faces an even more sinister threat from “the enemy within”—Nazis posing as ordinary citizens.

With pressure mounting, the intelligence service appoints two unlikely spies, Tommy and Tuppence Beresford. Their mission: to seek out a man and a woman from among the colorful guests at Sans Souci, a seaside hotel. But this assignment is no stroll along the promenade—N and M have just murdered Britain’s finest agent and no one can be trusted...

I fell in love with Agatha Christie in the fifth grade. By then, I had torn through every Encyclopedia Brown, Nancy Drew, and Hardy Boys book I could get my tiny—but growing—hands on. I was firmly hooked on mysteries and constantly on the lookout for something new. That Christmas, I received two of her books, The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side and The A.B.C. Murders, and I devoured them both in short order. She has remained my favorite author ever since, and when I first started this blog, I challenged myself to read all of her books in publishing order. It’s high time I got back to it.

This is going to be a very short review, because I don’t have a lot to say. While I will always choose an Agatha Christie novel over most modern mysteries, they don’t all work equally well for me. I thoroughly enjoy Tommy and Tuppence as characters; I’ve just never been the biggest fan of espionage stories, even when they’re written by Agatha Christie. As always, her plotting is damn near perfect, and no matter how often I read her, I’m still surprised by how she layers details—letting them build on one another and painting a picture that never fails to entertain me. I’m just not as entertained by spies as I am by good old-fashioned murders.

Still, I loved diving back into her work again. Agatha Christie remains one of my literary happy places, and I’m excited to spend the coming year working my way through her books once more. They may not all be favorites, but Christie is still Christie—and that’s more than enough for me.

Challenges: Mount TBR, Cloak and Dagger 

Murder Most Haunted by Emma Mason

 

Synopsis From Back Cover:

On her last day as a Detective, Midge McGowan is given the retirement present from hell: a ticket to a haunted house tour. She’ll have to spend the weekend before Christmas ghost-hunting in an isolated mansion with a group of misfits, including a know-it-all paranormal investigator and a has-been pop star.

The guests soon realize that the house has a mind of its own... and that they might not be the only ones there. An eerie figure appears on the property, and then the unthinkable happens: someone is murdered in a room that's been locked from the inside.

When a blizzard cuts the group off from help, the house’s own dark secrets begin to surface, and Midge can’t shake the creeping sense that they are walking into a nightmare. Could a ghost really be responsible? Or is the culprit one of the guests, who have somehow, impossibly, endeared themselvesto Midge?

Because I’m still not entirely sure whether I liked this book or not, this may end up being a rather short—and possibly a little rambling—review. Reading Murder Most Haunted was an odd experience.

The first half of the book was a slog. Honestly, if I hadn’t needed this one for a couple of reading challenges, I might not have pushed myself through it. Our lead detective is, at least initially, a deeply miserable character. She reads as someone so unhappy in every aspect of her life that it robs her of any personality beyond what is imposed upon her by others in her life. It’s the kind of unhappiness that becomes such a dominant part of who a person is that Midge starts off feeling less like a fully realized human being and more like an automaton moving through the motions of life.

She has quirks, but early on they come across as just further evidence of how damaged she is. The old adage “misery loves company” pretty much sums up my first impressions of the rest of the cast as well. I didn’t like a single one of them at the beginning, and I found myself quietly hoping that more than one body might turn up.

Gradually, though, something shifted. I’m not entirely sure if the book itself started to grow on me, if the characters became more fleshed out and likable, or if I simply acclimated to its tone. Whatever the reason, as I kept reading, Midge began to make more sense. Her quirks and worldview gained context, and I stopped seeing her as a caricature and started seeing her as a woman who’d been dealt a truly shitty hand in life and did the best she could with what she had at the time.

I’m still not sure I like her, but by the end I had more respect for her—especially once the murderer was revealed.

As for the mystery itself, it was… fine. I’m a sucker for a locked-room murder, and I think the author did a reasonably solid job constructing this one. I don’t see myself rereading this book, but I would be willing to pick up a second Midge installment—provided the podcaster and the pop star come along for the ride.

Challenges: Mount TBR, Cloak and Dagger, Calendar of Crime 

Binge Watch --- The Mentalist

 

The Mentalist was another one of those shows I stopped watching during my years-long TV hiatus. Honestly, I’m not even sure I would have finished the series had I not taken that break. By that point, I was already exhausted by the Red John storyline, which felt like it would never end. I don’t mind a long through line, but eventually it needs to end. And the way they finally wrapped it up felt so ridiculously contrived that I was ready to pack it in altogether.

What stopped me was Simon Baker. His portrayal of Patrick Jane was so damn compelling that I was loath to say goodbye. Walking away from the character for good just didn’t sit right with me, so I was determined to stick with it. And then one day, I simply stopped turning the TV on—unless it was to watch a movie, either something I owned or whatever was on TCM.

Which brings us to this recent binge rewatch, where I finally found out how it all ended. Part of me really enjoyed spending time again with Patrick and the rest of the CBI team—especially Cho. I had completely forgotten just how adorable he is, albeit in that wonderfully stoic way. Patrick was just as charming as ever, and how anyone can resist that little half-smile of his is beyond me. It’s honestly unfathomable that Simon Baker didn’t land another big, long-running show after this. Maybe I should start a petition to bring him back to our screens.

As for the cases themselves, when they didn’t involve Red John, I enjoyed them for the most part. When Red John did show up, I found myself even more annoyed this time around. Maybe that’s residual irritation from my first watch, but dear lord, that storyline did not need to be dragged out into the sixth season. It should have ended after the third—at the latest.

That said, while the Red John resolution mostly made sense to me, the later decision to shuffle half the main cast over to the FBI just didn’t work. It wasn’t what I wanted for these characters, and part of me wishes I’d stopped watching at that point. I still enjoyed my time with Patrick, Cho, and Lisbon, but the show never quite regained its sense of cohesion after that shift. And don’t even get me started on the forced romance—Booth and Bones, they are not.

All that said, I do want to give the writers their due. The mythology of the show—including Red John—was carefully constructed, and they introduced recurring characters years in advance, laying groundwork that paid off much later. That takes real skill. Even when I didn’t enjoy the direction of certain storylines, they rarely missed a beat or flubbed a connection. The casting of those characters was also spot-on: Malcolm McDowell, Morena Baccarin, Pedro Pascal, Leslie Hope, and Reed Diamond amongst them—not a single wasted actor in the bunch.

While I’m glad I spent 151 episodes with Patrick Jane and finally saw how his story wrapped up, this isn’t a show I feel the need to revisit. I love so much of it, but the elements that frustrate me really frustrate me—and I don’t think I’m willing to put myself through that again.

Cloak and Dagger Reading Challenge

 

I realized I had left off a challenge when I wrote about the first two the other day. My friend Carol over at Carol’s Notebook hosts The Cloak and Dagger Reading Challenge, and since the mystery genre will always be my first love, I’m signing up.

I’m going for the Sherlock Holmes level, which means I’ll need to read and review at least 56 mystery novels. You can head over to the sign-up post for all the details.

Mirage City by Lev AC Rosen

 

Synopsis From Dust Jacket:

Private Investigator Evander “Andy” Mills’ next case takes him out of his comfort zone in San Francisco—and much to his dismay, back home to Los Angeles. After a secretive queer rights organization called the Mattachine Society enlists Andy to find some missing members, he must dodge not only motorcycle gangs and mysterious forces, but his own mother, too. 

Avoiding her proves to be a challenge when the case leads Andy to the psychological clinic she works at. Worlds collide, buried secrets are dug up, and Andy realizes he’s going to have to burn it all down this time if he wants to pull off a rescue. With secret societies, drugs, and doctors swirling around him, time is running out for Andy to locate the missing and get them to safety. And for him to make it back to San Francisco in one piece.

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but for the last four years I’ve started the new year with Andy. Lavender House was my first book of 2023, The Bell in the Fog kicked off 2024, Rough Pages started 2025, and now Mirage City is my first book of 2026. I hesitate to call it a ritual, but I’m not sure what else to call it. Habit? Tradition? Compulsion feels a little dramatic—but honestly, my reading year wouldn’t feel right without Andy, Gene, Lee, and Elise being the first characters I spend time with. It feels like coming home.

I’m not going to recap the plot, mostly because the synopsis already does a solid job. What I do want to talk about is Andy himself. I love watching him work a case. As this series has gone on, Andy has grown—not just as a detective, but as a queer man learning how to love himself and figure out where he fits in the community around him. He was always smart, always observant, but there’s a deeper sense of compassion and justice in how he approaches his work now. That growth feels earned, and it’s one of the reasons I keep coming back to this series.

I went back and forth for a while about how much I wanted to say about some of the themes Mirage City tackles. At one point, I had several long paragraphs written about conversion therapy and the ways our community has been brutalized and killed in the name of “curing” us—aversion therapy, forced commitments to asylums, chemical castration, electric shocks, lobotomies, all of it. This wasn’t ancient history. This happened to boys barely in their teens, and it’s still within living memory. In some forms, it’s still happening today.

Since this is a book review and not a queer history lesson, I’ll spare you all of that—but I think it’s important to say that the weight of that history is very much present in this story.

And honestly, that’s one of the many reasons I love this series so much. Lev AC Rosen has an incredible way of weaving queer history into his mysteries without ever making it feel like a lecture. For example, I’ve known about the Mattachine Society for years, but I didn’t know that the oldest continuously active queer organization is actually a biker gang called the Satyrs. That kind of detail matters. Our history isn’t taught in schools—if anything, it’s erased or glossed over—so I’m always grateful to authors who find ways to pass it along through fiction. So much of who we are as a community was shaped by that history, whether we realize it or not. 

I do want to be clear, though: Mirage City isn’t a heavy, joyless read. The themes are serious, but they never overwhelm the story or the characters. At its heart, this is a well-crafted mystery set in the 1950s that’s just as much about perseverance, self-acceptance, found family, and love as it is about crime. It’s another reminder of why starting my year with Andy feels so right—and why I already know I’ll be doing it again.

Challenges: Mount TBR, Cloak & Dagger 

The Christmas Guest by Peter Swanson

Synopsis From Dust Jacket:

Ashley Smith, and American art student in London for her junior year, was planning on spending Christmas alon, but a last-minute invitation-only fellow student Emma Chapman brings her to Starvewood Hall, country residence of the Chapman family. The Cotswold manor, festooned with pine boughs and crammed with guests for Christmas week, is a dream come true for Ashley. She is not only mesmerized by the cozy, firelit house, the large family, and the charming village of Clevemoor, but also by Adam Chapman, Emma's aloof and handsome brother. 

But Adam is being investigated by the local police over the recent brutal slaying of a girl from the village, and there is a mysterious stranger who haunts the woodland path between Starvewood Hall and the local pub. Ashley begins to wonder what kind of story she is actually inhabiting. Is she in a grand romance? A gothic tale? Or has she wandered into something far more sinister and terrifying than she'd ever imagined? 

Over thirty years later the events of that horrific week are revisited, along with a diary from that time. What began in a small English village in 1989 reaches its ghostly conclusion in modern-day New York, many Christmas seasons later.

I had resigned myself to not completing my commitment to read five or six Christmas-themed books for the Yuletide Spirit reading challenge. I was okay with it. I read four solid Christmas romances and enjoyed them, even if I never got to the stack of mysteries I bought specifically for the season.

Then, while reorganizing one of the bookcases in my bedroom, I was struck by an epiphany sent by the Icelandic Christmas spirits.

Okay, not really—but I did find my copy of The Christmas Guest, a short novella by Peter Swanson, that I bought the year before, shelved, and promptly forgot about until I stumbled across it during my spontaneous bookcase cleaning on Sunday. This was exactly what I needed to complete the challenge. I may have even done the Snoopy dance, if only in my head. As soon as I finished my chores, I hopped onto my bed and promptly read all ninety-six pages.

I absolutely loved Eight Perfect Murders (another book I’ll now get to write a review of at some point), to the point that it was one of my favorite books of 2020. Normally, when I love a book that much, I tear through the author’s backlist and keep up with their new releases as they’re published. For whatever reason, I never really did that with Peter Swanson. I don’t know if it was because none of the synopses grabbed me, or if his books were competing with others I was more excited about at the time. Either way, I didn’t pick up another one of his books until I bought The Christmas Guest last Christmas season. After reading this, his other books may stay on the back burner a bit longer.

I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t fully connect with the story as it unfolded. It could be as simple as the length not allowing me to become fully invested in Ashley. Most of the story is told through her diary entries from her time in the house, and like most diaries (my own journals included) from the college years, those entries can be annoying, shrill, delusional, angsty, repetitive, and about a dozen other adjectives that would be just as accurate.

It could also be that the twists were a little obvious. After reading two of his stories, I can tell Swanson shares my enjoyment of unreliable narratives, though this novella puts its own spin on that trope. For me, the length worked against it here—there just wasn’t enough room to lay the groundwork in a way that allowed the twists to be more subtle and genuinely surprising. Regardless of the reason, while this was an okay read for me, it isn’t one I see myself returning to.

As I was typing this up on my tablet, I remembered that I’ve heard great things about Nine Lives, so maybe I’ll give that one a try in the coming year. Hopefully, I’ll enjoy it as much as I did Eight Perfect Murders.

Challenges: Yuletide Spirit 

Rough Pages by Lev AC Rosen

 

Synopsis From Dust Jacket:

Private Detective Evander "Andy" Mills has been drawn back to the Lavender House estate for a missing person case. Pat, the family butler, has been volunteering for a book service, one that specializes in mailing queer books to a carefully guarded list of subscribers. With bookseller Howard Salzberger gone suspiciously missing along with his address book, everyone on that list, including some of Andy's closest friends, is in danger of being exposed. 

A search of Howard's bookstore reveals that someone wanted to stop him and his co-owner, Dorothea Lamb, from sending out their next book. The evidence points to not just the feds, but to the Mafia, who would be happy to use the subscriber list for blackmail. 

Andy has to maneuver through both the government and the criminal world, all while dealing with a nosy reporter who remembers him from his days as a police detective and wants to know why he's no longer a cop. With his own secrets closing in on him, can Andy find the list before all the lives on it are at risk?

Growing up as a gay kid who moved a ridiculous number of times, including a three-year stint traveling with a carnival, I always felt isolated. I never learned how to build friendships with kids my own age because I was never around long enough. That feeling of never quite fitting in led me to understand the power of books very early. At first, they were an escape, an easy way to step out of my own life and into places and people I’d never meet in real life. As I got older, they became something even more important: proof that I wasn’t alone. Proof that I could have a happy life as a gay man. Proof that I didn’t have to listen to the news media, religious leaders, or politicians who demonized people like me. Growing up gay in the ’80s and ’90s, those books were already hard enough to find—I can’t imagine what that search must have felt like in the ’50s.

Rough Pages, more than anything, felt like a story about the power of books to create community. Yes, it’s wrapped up in the mystery of a missing bookseller, and I’m sure y’all can guess the poor guy doesn’t get a happy ending, but the way the author builds the story never lets you forget how deeply books can change a life for the better.

As always, the mystery itself is brilliantly crafted. My jaw was on the floor when Andy finally pieced it all together. Like in Lavender House and The Bell in the Fog, the solution isn’t clean or comforting. It’s messy, human, and heartbreaking—leaving me mourning the loss of life on both sides of the violence. It’s the kind of solution that will linger in my mind for years to come.

Andy, in only three books, has completely stolen my heart and cemented himself in my top five favorite detectives of all time. He’s grown so much within himself that, and while I know this sounds silly, I honestly feel proud of the man he’s becoming. I need Andy to comtinue that growth, so I need this author to continue the series for the rest of my life.

At the end of the day, Rough Pages reminded me exactly why stories have mattered so much throughout my life. They carried me through some of the hardest years, and this one felt like a reminder of the hope that can still be found in your found community. If you haven’t started this series yet, I truly hope you will. Andy, and the author, deserves more readers. 

Murder Under Contract by Alex Henry

 

Synopsis From Goodreads:

There’s a gruesome start to the day for DI Leon Peterson when he’s called to an airline catering company: the boss has been knifed in his own kitchen. With few people seeming to regret his passing, Leon is spoilt for suspects. But witnesses are by turns defensive, distraught, and drug-addled, leading to frustrations for his newly-formed and sometimes fractious team.

Pressure to solve the case is piled on by Leon’s new boss – who happens to be his controlling ex-lover. Just as Leon thinks he has his murderer, one shocking discovery is followed by another, this one too close to home. Now he struggles to deal with family fall-out, with striking parallels to his case.

Poor Leon just cannot catch a break in this third installment. After being missing for decades, his father’s body has finally been discovered—and, as it turns out, the murderer might be a little closer to home than anyone could’ve guessed. The new case on his desk is horrifically bloody, and not a single person seems willing to cooperate. His brand-new team is fragile (too many personalities in one room), and he’s hoping against hope they come together before they implode. And if that wasn’t enough, his emotionally abusive ex is now his boss—and still thinks he can pull Leon’s strings like he used to. All this while Leon’s just trying to hold onto a new relationship.

If I were Leon, I’d have checked myself into a padded room by now, begging the world for a year of peace and quiet. But Leon handles it all with a kind of quiet strength that I can’t help but admire—though there’s definitely a little bit of avoidance mixed in for good measure. He’s the type of detective whose mind works methodically, clue by clue, until the whole picture forms (and that picture is never wrong). He throws himself into every case, whether it’s considered “important” or not, guided by an unshakable moral center. Watching him work is genuinely a pleasure.

Leon’s a joy to spend time with, and the people around him (well, not the ex) are just as compelling. The cases keep me hooked, and I find myself fully invested in every twist and turn. Here’s hoping Leon catches a break soon—but honestly? I kind of hope he doesn’t, because I never want this series to end.

The Bell in the Fog by Lev AC Rosen

 

Synopsis From Dust Jacket:

San Francisco, 1952. Detective Evander “Andy” Mills has started a new life for himself as a private detective―but his business hasn’t exactly taken off. It turns out that word spreads fast when you have a bad reputation, and no one in the queer community trusts him enough to ask an ex-cop for help.

When James, an old flame from the war who had mysteriously disappeared, arrives in his offices above the Ruby, Andy wants to kick him out. But the job seems to be a simple case of blackmail, and Andy’s debts are piling up. He agrees to investigate, despite everything it stirs up.

The case will take him back to the shadowy, closeted world of the Navy, and then out into the gay bars of the city, where the past rises up to meet him, like the swell of the ocean under a warship. Missing people, violent strangers, and scandalous photos that could destroy lives are a whirlpool around him, and Andy better make sense of it all before someone pulls him under for good.

I knew I was gay from a pretty young age, and from the start I knew it was something I needed to keep to myself. Carrying that secret weighed heavily on me, and by the time I was twelve, I was already wrestling with thoughts of suicide. For almost two years, I prayed every night that if my being gay was wrong—if God truly hated me—I would not wake up the next morning. I wasn’t exaggerating; I meant every word of it.

By the time I started high school, I began to accept myself more. I still wasn’t fully out until college. But I had finally found a balance within myself. I’m not saying the way society views me, or other external factors, doesn’t make my life as a gay man harder—because they do. But what we face today is nothing compared to what our community’s forefathers endured in the 1950s.

It’s in that kind of hostile environment that Andy is trying to navigate a path toward self-acceptance—to finally live life on his own terms, not those imposed by a society determined to crush him for who he loves. In the first book, Lavender House, Andy discovers a safe haven created by a found family. Through Elise, a member of that household who owns Ruby—the most popular queer bar in San Francisco—he begins to find people he can call his own. She encourages him to set up a PI business upstairs. But as a formerly closeted ex-cop from a police force infamous for bar raids, he walks into a room full of wary glances and whispered judgments.

Andy begins developing a romantic relationship with Gene, the head bartender, who was expelled from medical school because of his sexuality. Elise has become something like an older sister, and he may have found his first true friend in Lee, a drag performer who becomes his girl friday. For the first time, Andy is building a family of his own.

That fragile sense of belonging is put in danger when Andy is drawn into a case that threatens everyone he’s beginning to love. He’s forced to make choices to protect them and defend his growing sense of self-worth. Some decisions come easily, others less so, but he makes the right choice every time—even when he admits that a few years earlier, he wouldn’t have.

What I love about this series is that the author not only crafts mysteries so grounded in their time and place that Agatha Christie herself might be proud, but he also never sacrifices character development for plot. Both are perfectly balanced, tightly controlled, and rooted in postwar 1950s San Francisco—a city that, to borrow a cliché, becomes another character in the story.

Andy, Elise, Gene, and Lee have completely won me over—and I can’t get enough of this author’s storytelling. I need this series to never end.

Binge Watch --- Bones

 

I originally abandoned Bones during an odd TV boycott a few years back. This year, though, I’ve been watching more television than I have in ages—mainly to finally see how all those shows I once started actually ended.

If you’re unfamiliar, Bones is based on Kathy Reichs’s long-running Temperance Brennan novels (there are twenty-five and counting). Reichs herself is a forensic anthropologist, and the early books were reportedly inspired by her own experiences. I haven’t yet picked up the series—partly because I’ve heard the show handles character development better, and partly because I love these characters so much that I worry the books might not measure up. My TBR pile is already overflowing, so we’ll see if I ever get to them.

The show follows Temperance “Bones” Brennan, a brilliant but socially awkward forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian (think Smithsonian), who’s paired with FBI agent Seeley Booth. I’ll admit, I only tuned in at first because David Boreanaz was cast as Booth. As a full throated Buffy and Angel fan, there was no way I was going to miss him in a new role. But by the first half of the pilot, I was hooked—not just on Boreanaz, but on the dynamic chemistry between Brennan and Booth. Think William Powell and Myrna Loy as Nick and Nora Charles—level chemistry. Pure perfection. 

On paper, they couldn’t be more different. Brennan is analytical, clinical, and baffled by most pop culture. Booth relies on gut instinct, quick judgments, and has deep loyalty to his family. Over time, Brennan slowly grows into one of the most nuanced characters I’ve ever seen on television, while Booth remains her perfect counterbalance. Their dynamic is the heartbeat of the series, and it never stopped being a joy to watch.

Of course, I wouldn’t have made it through 246 episodes if the supporting cast hadn’t been equally compelling. Lance Sweets (a personal favorite), Hodgins, Angela, Camille, Zach, and even the rotating “squinterns” all brought depth and heart to the show. Across twelve seasons, they faced serial killers, bombers, snipers, hurricanes, complicated families—and countless murder cases. Through it all, they had each other. They solved crimes, but more importantly, they saved each other.

Murder Under Ground by Alex Henry

 

Synopsis From Goodreads:

DI Leon Peterson’s Christmas at home is interrupted by the discovery of a body practically on the police station doorstep—but who would brutally stab Paul Easton, a popular youth worker, in the station’s underground car park, and why would suspicion fall on DS Jasmine Todd?

As they work over Christmas and New Year, Leon is forced to bring in other detectives, not all of them welcome additions. They soon realise there’s more to Paul Easton and his life than meets the eye. Conflicts within the team extend both on a personal level and how they view the suspects. No one appears to be who they seem.

For Leon, this case hits home in more ways than one. Yet again he revisits his past as they hunt for Paul Easton’s killer. Meanwhile, he has his own decisions to make regarding his future in the force.

There’s a scene in this book that could have been pulled straight from The Wire—chaotic and violent, with bullets flying and buildings burning. I wasn’t expecting that level of intensity in the second book of an LGBTQ+ police procedural with a hint of a budding romance, but it works. The moment comes about halfway through, and yet it sets the tone for the entire book. The overarching mystery is darker than the one in Murder Under Construction, giving the story higher stakes.

Even with that darker backdrop, it’s Leon and the people around him who make the book shine. Leon is quickly becoming one of my favorite modern detectives. I love spending time with him, watching how he works with his team, and seeing how his determination pushes him forward. He’s not a genius on the level of Poirot or Holmes, but he doesn’t need to be—his persistence, loyalty, and instinct for justice make him just as compelling.

Two books in, I find myself admiring Leon more with each case. If book three continues in this direction, I’ll be falling even deeper in love. 

Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone by Benjamin Stevenson

 

Synopsis From The Dust Jacket:

Ernie Cunningham, crime fiction aficionado, is a reluctant guest at his family reunion. Family reunions aren't for everyone, of course. But Ern's part of a notorious crime family—and three years ago, he witnessed his brother kill a man and immediately turned him in to the police. Now Ern's brother is being released from prison and the family is gathering to welcome him home.

As if that weren't bad enough, the reunion is taking place at a remote mountain resort. The day before Ern's brother is set to arrive, a man's body is found frozen on the slopes. While most Cunninghams assume the man simply collapsed and died of hypothermia during the night, Ern's stepsister spots a strange detail—the man's airways are clogged with ash. He appears to have died by fire... in a pristine snowfield... without a single burn mark on him. 

The longer the body goes unidentified, the more overwhelmed the local policeman becomes, and the more Ern realizes it's up to him to find the murderer. Holmes, Christie, Chesterton: he's read then all. He knows what patterns to look for, what rules killers follow. And of course, he knows his own family. Every member of which, as he's told us from the start, has killed someone. 

I’ve sat here staring at my screen, willing the words for a perfect review of Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone to appear—flowing effortlessly from my fingers. But the truth is, that perfect review isn’t in the cards for me. Instead, I’m left to write an imperfect one, feeling as though I’ll always owe both Ern and the author a heartfelt apology.

I don’t know why I can’t string together the just-right words to capture how much fun this book was. What I can say is that I adored spending time with Ern—getting to know his family, watching the way his mind works, and laughing at his sharp, dry humor. The entire story unfolds through his eyes, and as the bodies begin to pile up—six in total—his voice remains steady, witty, and endlessly engaging.

One thought has stuck with me as I’ve wrestled with what to say: Jessica Fletcher would have felt right at home in this story. It’s exactly the kind of mystery she could have sunk her teeth into—whether as the sleuth or as J.B. Fletcher, the author of such a twisted tale. And if you know me at all, you’ll know that’s the highest compliment I can give.

Strange Pictures by Uketsu

 

Synopsis From Flap:

A pregnant woman's sketches on a seemingly innocuous blog conceal a chilling warning. 

A child's picture of his home contains a dark secret message.

A sketch by a murder victim in his final moments leads an amateur sleuth down a rabbit hole that will reveal a horrifying reality. 

Strange Pictures is Uketsu's first book, which I didn’t know when I read Strange Houses. On the face of it, they aren’t connected in any way, so the reading order doesn’t matter. That said, had I read Strange Pictures first, I'm not totally sure I would have picked up the second book—which would have been a shame, since I really enjoyed Strange Houses.

I'm not saying I didn’t like Strange Pictures; I'm just not sure I liked it enough to continue with the author's writing style—a judgment I'm not completely sure would have been fair. That’s the dilemma with translated work. Some of what I may not be fully connecting with could be due to tonal and cultural markers that are hard to translate from one language to another, especially when the two languages don’t share a common linguistic origin, like Japanese and English. Because of that, I try my damndest to go into a translated work with an open mind and an understanding that I may be missing something.

That said, I loved how twisted and interconnected the overarching story becomes as its many tributaries come together. What seems at first to be three separate stories, taking place on overlapping timelines that aren’t clear from the beginning, becomes a singular tale of murders most foul. In that, I think the author ingeniously wove this tapestry of a story—pictures and all.

What didn’t work for me was how exposition-heavy the storytelling became. At times, it felt like the author was walking me through every connection, explaining how the pieces fit rather than letting me discover it for myself. I don’t mind a bit of guidance, but I don’t want to feel guided. I wish there had been a lighter touch. And that’s where my dilemma lies: how much of that heavy-handedness comes from the author, and how much might be a byproduct of translation?

If you like twisted little mysteries, Strange Pictures is absolutely worth picking up. However, if you're only willing to try one of his two current books, I'd recommend you pick up Strange Houses instead.

Lavender House by Lev AC Rosen

 

Synopsis From The Dust Jacket:

Lavender House, 1952: the family seat of recently deceased matriarch Irene Lamontaine, head of the Lamontaine soap empire. This estate offers a unique freedom, where none of the residents or staff hide who they are. But to keep their secret, they've needed to keep others out. And now they're worried about keeping a murderer in. 

Irene's widow hires Evander Mills to uncover the truth behind her mysterious death. Andy, recently fired from the San Francisco police department after being caught in a raid on a gay bar, is happy to accept - his calendar is wide open. And his secret is the kind of secret the Lamontaines understand. 

Andy had never imagined a world like Lavender House. He's seduced by the safety and freedom found behind its gates, where a queer family lives honestly and openly. But that honesty doesn't extend to everything, and he quickly finds himself a pawn in a family game of old money, subterfuge, and jealousy - and Irene's death is only the beginning. 

The gates of Lavender House can't lock out the real world forever, and running a soap empire can be a dirty business. 

When I was in high school—in the early 1990s, for anyone interested—I would go to the public library in Skiatook, OK, and search for every single book I could find that featured a gay male character. At the time, I was desperate to read anything about who I might become as a gay man. I needed to know what my life could look like. You have to remember, we weren't on TV, and most movies with gay characters portrayed stereotypes of the worst kind. That’s not to say books were perfect in that regard. A lot of what I read was filled with self-hate and unhappy endings—and this was coming from gay authors. For the record, most classic gay lit is depressing. I'm glad I read those books, but for the most part, they aren’t ones I’d ever want to revisit.

The exceptions were the mystery books. In them, I found characters who were comfortable in their own skin and relatively well-adjusted. In Joseph Hansen’s Dave Brandstetter, Michael Nava’s Henry Rios, Richard Stevenson’s Donald Strachey, and the more "cozy" sleuths created by Mark Richard Zubro, I found characters who made me realize my future wasn’t all doom and gloom—a future where I could be happy.

The first time I dove into the world of Andy Mills, I knew I’d found another character who would have affected me the exact same way. But unlike the others, Andy is navigating a world where being gay could get you fired, committed to an asylum, or killed without anyone caring. He’s a character who has hit rock bottom and is struggling to recover—so when he finds Lavender House, he grabs on with both hands.

At Lavender House, he finds a group of people who can truly be themselves behind the gates of the estate, even if they play roles for the general public. Lavender House is a sanctuary, but like all insulated havens, a festering evil has started to blossom within its walls. Andy's job is to find and root out who planted the evil that ended in bloodshed.

I love an author who can craft a well-balanced mystery alongside characters that feel real and grounded. Andy has to be one of the most authentic characters I’ve come across in any genre. I absolutely adore this series, and it’s one I hope never ends. I want Andy to continue growing into his own skin and within the gay community. I want him to find happiness and fulfillment in life. I want to watch him fall in love and grow old. In the meantime, I’ll gladly read every twisty mystery he finds himself entangled in.

Favorite Fictional Character --- Patrick Jane

 

I'm nothing if not predictable. When it comes to TV shows, with a few exceptions, I stick to two broad genres: the supernatural and the mysterious. I can sit here and name dozens of TV shows—and even more characters—that I've fallen in love with over the years, getting lost in their stories as they play out on the silver screen.

Over the years, I've featured some heavyweight television sleuths like Jessica Fletcher, Perry Mason, and Thomas Magnum. All three are characters who helped shape my young mind as I was developing my interest in mysteries. As an adult, I've continued to devour mystery shows like the last of my Halloween candy.

Today, I'm going to (re)introduce you to Patrick Jane, the ex-psychic con man from The Mentalist. When we're first introduced to Patrick, his wife and daughter had been killed by a ruthless serial killer, and he's now using his skills while working with the CBI—the California Bureau of Investigation. He's a deeply damaged man who feels that his arrogance is the reason why his family was brutally murdered. 

Through the seasons, he learns to forgive himself and to put the blame where it belongs—on Red John. He never quite loses his obsession with vengeance, but he softens—though I'm not sure that's the right word. It's more like he becomes less rigidly fragile. He reaches a point where he no longer seems like he's going to break.

I'd be remiss if I didn't point out that I’d match his observational skills against those of Sherlock Holmes—or even Sherlock Hemlock—any damn day of the week. If it weren't for the way Patrick has learned to manipulate his marks, I might have called such a challenge a tie. Instead, I’d have to give the edge to him. I think he's one of the smartest characters ever created, but more than that, he's one of the most compelx characters to ever grave a TV screen, and I absolutely adore every second spent with him.

The Old Dark House (1932)

 

Synopsis From Rotten Tomatoes:

Driving through a brutal thunderstorm in Wales, three travelers take refuge in an eerie house owned by the Femm family. Reluctantly admitted by Horace Femm (Ernest Thesiger), the three sit down to a strange dinner. Horace is neurotic; mute butler Morgan (Boris Karloff) is an alcoholic; and Horace's sister, Rebecca (Eva Moore), raves about chastity. When the storm brings in an industrialist and chorus girl Gladys DuCane Perkins (Lilian Bond), Morgan's lust and Rebecca's ire are ignited.

Do you have those movies that, no matter how many times you watch them, you keep coming back to? I hope you do—because returning to old favorites should feel like coming home, even if they're dark, gothic masterpieces directed by the great James Whale.

I've been a huge fan of Frankenstein—Whale's 1931 classic—for a long time. So when I first heard about The Old Dark House, I knew I had to see it. I actually bought it without ever watching it first. It had just been re-released on Blu-ray, so I ordered it from Barnes & Noble, and a few hours after bringing it home, I had it in the player. Within fifteen minutes, I was completely hooked on this weird little gothic gem.

The acting is peak 1930s camp, and I love every second of it. Karloff is perfect, obviously. Gloria Stuart—decades before Titanic—is stunning and sharp. Eva Moore? She should’ve played every witch in every movie, ever. And then there’s Melvyn Douglas, who just so happens to be one of my favorite forgotten actors. Honestly, how is he not mentioned in the same breath as Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart? I’ve never seen him in a role I didn’t halfway fall in love with.

This movie is a total blast. It all takes place during one stormy night in a creepy old manor, and it’s packed with bizarre characters, buried secrets, and more atmosphere than the Titanic could handle. I’ve watched it at least fifteen times, and I’m sure I’ll be back at the Femm House a dozen more.