Behind Her Eyes by Sarah Pinborough

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"That ending!"

"That ending!"

"That ending!"

And my personal favorite, the ever-eloquent: "that ending was fucked up," though I would describe it more as absurd, outlandish, and bullocks, to use in favor of the American version of "complete bullshit." Behind Her Eyes by Sarah Pinborough is like bad sex - interesting and cryptic, but a little confusing at first; a decent enough middle to keep you powering through, but then an ending that is a complete disappointment, leaving you wishing you had just watched 20/20 instead.

Louise is a single-mom and a part-time secretary who, one night, meets a man at a bar. They talk and flirt and spark a connection fueled by alcohol and excitement, only to discover the next day their boss-secretary relationship. Then Louise meets Adele; the beautiful, luminous, mysterious, Adele, wife of The Man from The Bar. And though Louise tries in vain to stay away, she is inexplicably drawn into the lives of David and Adele, and the extremely shaky foundation on which their marriage is built. As Louise peels back the pages of their lives, there are definitely way more questions than answers, and one that you will most undoubtedly have is, "What the fuck am I reading?"

The problem with there being so much hype about the ending is that I found myself reading for the ending, and it didn't help that the story is confusedly cryptic, the dream analysis and whole Second Door business going way over my head. It is sinister and haunting, if only for the choppy way in which it's written, and the transitions aren't at all seamless, which I suppose is the point. The beginning is a bit boring, but once things start to be explained, the pages flip much faster, and then, of course, there is the infamous ending, which you either love or hate. I find it to be a bit of a cop-out; a dumbing-down of an otherwise good story. And, yes, even though it is completely unpredictable and everything a shocking twist should be, it is also the strangest way to explain it all away, and the weirdest ending to a Domestic Noir that I could ever imagine. Now it's pretty much impossible not to read this book for the ending. ⭐⭐/5 on my goodreads.

The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides

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I picked up The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides in much the same fashion as everyone else who has ever decided to give it a go - obvious curiosity for "But why does she not speak?" (Euripides) But as I started to burn through the pages, I developed a different reaction to this book altogether. I stopped caring about, and wanting to know why, Alicia Berenson - a famous painter married to an in-demand fashion photographer - refuses, or is unable, to speak, and I just got it. I absolutely get why, after shooting her husband in the face five times while he was tied to a chair, Alicia never spoke another word. And by the end of the book, I was ready to shoot every character in the face five times.

Alicia Berenson is tucked away at a secure psychiatric unit in North London when, like most in the field, Criminal Psychotherapist, Theo Faber, becomes entranced by the story. Also like most in the field, he is positive that he is the one to rescue her, to save her from herself, and to save The Grove from imminent closure. Alicia's case quickly becomes his main focus, questionably blurring the lines between patient and therapist in a self-satisfying effort to truly understand her.

The story is intricate and well-told, with a lot of moving parts that Michaelides deftly keeps from getting too complicated. It is a definite page-turner, and offers up a serious twist that will make even the most seasoned reader gasp. It irritatingly reads more like a crime novel, the upside being that Faber is not actually a Detective, which, for some reason always gives characters a level of arrogance I cannot stand. The Silent Patient shouldn't necessarily be categorized as a psychological thriller, either, but more of a dramatic thriller, reminiscent of You by Caroline Kepnes.

The writing is clear, concise, and invokes some serious introspection, which all novels are meant to do, but this book far surpasses the norm, at least for this reader. In much the same way the book discusses transference, Alicia stops being simply a character and becomes a representation; I am her and she is me. We think of death as the cease to function by our physical bodies, not realizing or acknowledging how many times we die on the inside, while our bodies continue to plug away like machines. 

I really had to think about my goodreads rating before I made it and ultimately settled on ⭐⭐⭐⭐/5. The Silent Patient will definitely leave a lasting impression.

Maestra by L.S. Hilton

Well, this novel definitely falls into the I Don't Know What The Fuck I Just Read category. Maestra by L.S. Hilton gave me some very conflicting thoughts, not unlike the book itself; it's Fifty Shades of Grey without the whiny Anastasia, and Nancy Drew with extra naughty. And if there is one thing the book taught me, it's to never underestimate the underling.

Judith is a put-upon art house assistant whose talents are grossly overlooked and taken advantage of. When she accidentally discovers an impending heist, Judith sets off on a European tour that would make even the Hilton sisters green with envy (and scream from all of the spanking).

Maestra starts out interesting enough, though the uncovering of the heist is a bit confusing. It helps that Judith's work and her obvious display of intelligence are interspersed with erotic sex scenes with strangers who also happen to swim in the same circles, which is just the beginning of the various contradictions. 

Then Judith seems to put her Nancy Drew routine on hold while she high-end hooks from the French Riviera to Geneva. The book synopsis will have you believe that Judith sets out to reclaim what is rightfully her's when it's really more of something falling into her lap and she is just selfish enough to go after it. The story is empowering though degrading, overly complicated yet too easy, glamorous but trashy, and classy yet sleazy. The writing is pretentious and elitist even though Hilton has a proclivity for the word "cunt," and although Judith - as well as the book - scoffs at the idea that a woman embracing her sexuality is a result of trauma, she still peppers the story with snippets of Judith's violent childhood. Aside from that, we never get to know anything about Judith besides her fashion choices and how wet her pussy gets.

The writing - unlike the inside of Judith, apparently - is not smooth or fluid, and although Hilton obviously has a very broad vocabulary, it doesn't extend to her sex scenes. And what Judith makes look easy, Hilton over-complicates with her list of geographical places in lieu of any imagery.

Maestra is definite superficial erotic escapism in the way that is totally unreal and unbelievable. And even though Romance novels are always outside the realms of reality, I feel duped with this book for some reason; the execution just missed the mark. I won't rush out to the bookstore to continue the trilogy, but I won't turn it down if I happen across Domina at the Dollar Tree.

⭐⭐/goodreads CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE 

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