This Book Will Bury Me is a gripping true crime thriller... But also, did she really just go there?

While it’s a wild ride that kept me up past midnight, it’s also a book that occasionally stumbles over its own ambition, like a drunk friend trying to explain a conspiracy theory after several drinks.  It’s compelling, messy, and oh so addictive, but it’s not without its baggage.

Let’s start with the elephant in the room: this book is basically the Idaho 4 murders with the serial numbers filed off. We’ve got three college girls (minus the bonus boyfriend) stabbed to death in a sleepy Idaho town called Delphine, their last night spent partying before the grim reaper—or rather, a knife-wielding psycho—shows up. Sound familiar? It’s so close to the real-life tragedy of Kaylee Goncalves, Madison Mogen, Xana Kernodle, and Ethan Chapin that I half-expected to see a white Hyundai Elantra parked in the plot. There’s even a Bryan Kohberger doppelgänger—a brooding, criminology-obsessed grad student who’s just a little too good at lurking. Winstead’s not subtle about it, and while she slaps a “this is fiction, y’all” disclaimer at the front, it’s hard not to feel like you’re reading a fanfic of a still-open wound. The trial’s not even happened yet (it’s set for June 2025, folks), and here we are, fictionalizing it like it’s a Netflix docuseries ready for binging.

The main character, Jane Sharp, is an obvious self-insert—Winstead’s practically admitted as much, tying Jane’s grief over her dad’s death to her own loss. Jane’s a college kid who spirals into the dark web of true crime forums after her father shufflds off the mortal coil. Jane’s obsession with cracking cases feels real, raw, and a little unhinged in the best way. She hooks up with a ragtag crew of online sleuths. It's Only Murders in the Building but with less Steve Martin and more Reddit vibes, and they dive headfirst into the Delphine murders. The pacing is relentless; I tore through the 400+ pages in two days, fueled by soda and a nagging need to know whodunit. (I'll admit, I was close to DNFing it as I already know what happened in real life Idaho, but Ashley piled up more bodies). 

Winstead’s writing is a highlight. She’s got a knack for making you feel Jane’s desperation, like when she’s hunched over her laptop, chasing ghosts in chatrooms while the real world fades away. The twisty plot delivers too. (I won’t spoil it). 

But here’s where the snark creeps in: the book’s a little too pleased with itself. The Idaho parallels are so blatant it’s almost tacky—like, Ashley, we get it, you watched the news. And Jane? She’s a compelling mess, but her self-righteous tangents about truth and justice made me roll my eyes so hard I saw my brain. Plus, the sleuth crew’s antics sometimes feel like a true crime podcast gone rogue—entertaining, sure, but I couldn’t shake the sense that Winstead was winking at me through the pages, daring me to call her out.

Still, I can’t deny the pull. I devoured this thing (once it deviated from reality) like it was a bag of sour gummies, even if I winced at the aftertaste. It’s a love letter to true crime junkies, a middle finger to armchair ethics, and a therapy session for Winstead’s grief all rolled into one.