Psychological thrillers are my favourite genre of books. Dark, twisted, thrilling and most of all, leaves you quiet in shock and sometimes even in awe, for a long time. I started Alice Feeney’s “Sometimes I Lie,” a while back. But for some reason, even though I know it’s quite an interesting book, I’ve not been able to go past the first few chapters. Then I saw a roommate of mine, gushing about her newest release which left her shook, and I thought I should read something beautiful and cleansing after the last brutal book I read.
Grady Green used to be a famous author, and now he waits for the confirmation that his book has become a bestseller. He wants his journalist wife, Abby, to be with him when he gets the news from his publisher, Kitty, but she’s running late. Soon enough, however, the news comes.
Abby, on the other hand is driving home from work that stormy evening when she immediately slams the brakes. There’s someone lying on the ground in front of her car, and against the plea of her husband who begs her on the phone to remain inside, she hangs up and goes out into the storm. Soon enough, Grady comes running, but is about to realize just how worse a turn his life is about to take.
As readers, we appreciate that moment of silence. Silence in words and sometimes in heart while your mind is racing through a million thoughts a second. We also like the calm after a satisfying book. A fleeting sense of loss but calmness notwithstanding. What we do not like is having so many questions after reading a book, especially questions like, “What the heck did I just read,” or ‘Why the heck did I read what I just read?”
That’s how I felt with this book. I was silent but I was bristling with annoyance and questions. It all didn’t make sense. My annoyance is that, of all the genres, I believe that psychological thrillers are the toughest to write, and also the most delicate. Every statement, every item and every event is channelled towards fulfilling that last beautiful climax. So, it’s super easy to get something wrong. You either get it perfectly or you botch it up royally, and in this case, it was sadly the latter.
I’m all for women empowerment. That is quite honestly my identity. But what I saw in this book wasn’t empowerment. It wasn’t also women who have been wronged seeking solace in each other. It was women becoming gossip girls and psychotically planning some sick revenge that was cruel, more than anything else. Women kidnapping men and murdering them isn’t taking charge. Women hiding on an island and devising horrible means to keep it running, isn’t also taking charge. The author just proved the stereotypes right, and muddied a plot that could have showcased just how strong we are.
The characters were weak, peevish and extremely unlikable. I mean there wasn’t a single one of them that I didn’t detest on a high scale. They were constantly whining, had awful personalities, and it was difficult to root for any of them. The only character I could even stand was Columbo, the dog, and that was because he was just a sweet little soul trapped in an awful book but still managing to make the most out of it.
The discrepancies in the plot were overwhelming. Did the author even know what she was writing? A story that started out intriguing in the first third of the book progressively became ridiculous. I was curious and interested to see how the whole madness would end, and I did. It was disappointing and infuriating. I could go on and on but it really all boils down to the same thing. A 4/10 from me. If you’ve never read Alice Feeney’s books, this is the worst way to start.
Thumbnail created with Canva.
