Sherlock Holmes and Watson meet the Hardy Boys—if memory itself were the unreliable witness.
The story begins with a fragment: a half-remembered clue recalled by a mother slipping fast into Alzheimer’s. Something about a hatchet. Something about a lot of blood. The ‘memory’ is set against the backdrop of the 1970s. The unsettling possibility that his mother may be connected to a long-cold serial killer case, sends her son, Patrick, down the rabbit hole trying to figure out if his mother is hallucinating or recalling some horrifying experience.
Patrick is doing his best to adjust to a new normal, with his mother now living in the granny flat behind his family’s home. But whenever she grazes this memory, panic sets in. That fear is the spark. Patrick teams up with an old childhood friend, and together they chase clues—many of which lead down dead-ends, or worse, to places that don’t quite add up.
What really works here is the voice. The novel is told in first person, and the narrator sounds like an actual human being, not a literary mannequin. The swearing is light and well-timed—exactly what most of us would mutter under similar circumstances. The humor lands through smart-ass remarks and sharp observational details, keeping the story from becoming too heavy even when the subject matter is dark.
The chapters are short, punchy, and cleverly titled. This is dangerous bedtime reading. I repeatedly told myself, “Just one more chapter,” and somehow ended up three or four chapters deeper before turning out the light.
I picked this up at a book fair, knowing nothing about the author, but having dealt with Alzheimer’s patients myself, the premise hooked me immediately. I’m glad I took the chance. This is good writing, a solid mystery, and an easy, absorbing read. If you’re looking for a smart escape with heart and humor, I recommend you grab it.