There were passages in this book that left me holding my breath in a wondrous way. Paragraphs that seemed to snatch exactly how I feel out of the literary air. About the small joys of life found in ugly little things (like stuttering fluorescent fixtures and dandruff) and the hilarity of humanity (a toddler with a voice “like a bassoon”).

French has a grip around setting that reminds me of David Mitchell’s “Black Swan Green” (of course, this is Ireland and that was England, please don’t think I have the two confused–but we are talking about coming of age in the 80’s here): looking back on puberty with winsomeness and confusion.

(Minor spoiler point following)

The plot is both sinuous and absolutely maddening: discovering today that there is a planned sequel makes me feel duped by the ambiguous ending. There were things that the protagonists did to each other that made my heart sing with regret–but now that I know it is undoable by a continuing story, I’m let down.

French takes on a story that is at the same time suspense, police drama and modern literature. It works, and you care, perhaps too much. The murder of a young girl is the connective center of the novel, with detective Rob Ryan’s tragic past interwoven. I admit that I want to see what happens in the next book. I’m hooked. But I do feel exploited. ( )

Book 17 of 2008