Saratoga Schaefer’s debut novel promised to be a thrilling confection of some of my favorite things: feminine rage, serial killers, justice for victims, and dark humor. 

My issue is just that nothing hit as hard as I would’ve liked or hit the right spot, in my opinion. 

Part of my issue stems from there being a little too much masculine in my queer feminist thriller. If I wanted to read chapters from the POV of male serial killers then I’d go and read one of the gazillion books about male serial killers. In this book they felt out of place and like filler material. They only pulled me out of the story and tripped up the pacing. 

I was provided a copy of this title by the author and publisher via NeGalley. All thoughts, opinions, views, and ideas expressed herein are mine and mine alone. All reviews rated three stars or lower will not appear on my social media. Thank you.