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I've now read the worst book of the year, and it's only January! At least I hope it's the worst book of the year, as I'd hate to have my brain polluted by anything worse than The Secret Next Door by Rebecca Taylor.
It's not that I expected anything profound; I just wanted to be mindlessly entertained by a run-of-the-mill domestic thriller about secrets in suburbia. What I got was so, so much less. There's a dead kid, but nothing about the autopsy and cause of death, which makes the eventual reveal feel like it comes out of left field. There's practically nothing about what the police are doing to investigate, but there's plenty about Christmas shopping and a misbehaving five-year-old. The characters are all shallow and unlikable and drink a lot, sometimes conveniently getting blackout drunk. The whole thing is just ridiculous and pedestrian.
Even the narrator, Libby McKnight, is subpar, with weird, too-long pauses for punctuation.
Blech.
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