A few weeks ago, I read the final book of The Hunger Games trilogy. I put off reading it as long as I could because I knew how quickly it would go, and how sad I would be when it was over. My predictions were correct. I suppressed the urge to go back and start the series again at the beginning. I was able to do this mainly because we don't actually own the books.
After such an emotional roller coaster, I was faced with the ever-difficult question of what to read next. I had recently read a book by P.D. James, The Lighthouse. Then, last week, my friend Laura offered me a copy of the next book in the same series that she had picked up at VV. It seemed fated.
When it comes to mysteries, I am picky. I went through an Agatha Christie phase in middle school, but since then, no single mystery writer has captured my attention. Jonathan Kellerman is a good companion for beach vacations, but his books don't hold up in the harsh light of everyday life. James Patterson's books are laughably bad, particularly when they feature a female protagonist. I have started The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency three times, wanting badly to like it, but never quite actually achieving this aim. But, there is something about P.D. James that has tickled my fancy. (Can I write that on the Internet?)