I feel like I should apologize for so many “meh” reviews as of late. I guess I’m in a grouchy reader phase (ever have one of those?) But I’m glad Alex Finlay’s Every Last Fear won’t be the book with which I finish my cannonball. I dunno, I’m just tired of half-assed thrillers written by mediocre writers. I love mysteries, suspense novels and thrillers. I’ve read a lot of good ones and some bad ones. But the novels that depress me the most are the superficial, cookie-cutter ones.
The premise is interesting: a family of four is found dead without an obvious cause of death. An FBI agent thinks there is something suspicious about the deaths, but nothing can be proven. The two remaining adult children are at opposite ends: one’s in college and one’s in jail for a murder he allegedly didn’t commit. The story shifts among characters and timelines; the family members who died are given a voice in various chapters that take place before the deaths. Then there is the current timeline after the family is discovered. We mostly follow Matt, one of the sons, as he deals with the aftermath and some strange occurrences. The story of his brother’s imprisonment is woven in.
But the writing made me tired. It was just so lifeless and amateur. One thing I really couldn’t get past is Matt’s reactions after the death of almost his entire family. There’s a bit of choking up here and there, but most of the time he seems strangely disaffected as he goes about things like releasing his family’s bodies from the Mexican town in which they died. He flirts extensively with several women and their “twinkling eyes” and even gets some snogging in. After a series of scary events, including an almost kidnapping and a brush with a beating or worse, he laments he’s had one fucked-up week, to which is best friend agrees and says again with a “big grin,” “You, my friend, have had one fucked-up week.” I mean, WTF. Yes, it sure puts a damper on things when most of your family dies in a mysterious event. What a world.
It’s not at all a fair comparison, but while I read the book, I sometimes cast my mind back to Albert Camus’ The Plague, which I read recently. Camus is such a virtuoso, such a genius with language, reading his books are almost a spiritual experience for me. Reading some hacky novel just to find out who/howdunnit doesn’t do much. I love books, escapist ones as well, but if I read too many clunkers I start to feel bleh. Something about this book just tired me out. I’m going to be intentional about what I finish my cannonball on.