WeaveReads

Reading, Writing, and Everything In Between

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Single parent, book hoarder, and lover of stories that keep me up way past bedtime.
  • Mother-Daughter Murder Night — Book Review **SPOILERS**

    Mother-Daughter Murder Night — Book Review **SPOILERS**

    I went into “Mother-Daughter Murder Night” expecting something light and cozy, but this actually surprised me in the best way. The opening fake-out with the “body” turning out to be a seal?? Weirdly hilarious. It immediately set the tone: this book knows it’s a little quirky and leans into it.

    We follow Lana, Beth, and Jack — three generations of women who could not be more different but somehow work SO well together. At first, Lana feels like your classic rich, slightly overbearing mother, but then the story hits you with her cancer diagnosis and suddenly everything softens. The way we move through her treatments, hair loss, everything; it’s fast, but still really impactful. I ended up loving her character so much. She’s strong, sharp, a little dramatic, and honestly giving Emily Gilmore energy in the best way.

    Beth and Jack’s dynamic took me a second to settle into. Jack being super independent at 15 felt a little off at first, and I did want more context there, but it eventually clicked as the story went on. And the constant tension between the three of them? More “Gilmore Girls” chaos, and I was eating it up.

    The mystery itself kept me guessing more than I expected. I was genuinely going back and forth between suspects (Diana vs. Martin had me STRESSED), and while the final reveal surprised me, I do think things wrapped up a bit neatly. That said, Lana being ten steps ahead of everyone kind of made it work. She’s basically operating on another level the entire time.

    I will say, the occasional “modern” references (like random meme-y stuff) pulled me out a bit. It always feels slightly cringy to me when books try too hard to sound current. But thankfully, that wasn’t enough to ruin the overall vibe.

    What really made this for me was the heart of the story. Underneath the mystery, this is very much about family, complicated relationships, and showing up for each other, even when it’s messy.

    And the ending?? I was SO relieved Lana didn’t leave. Moving into the garage instead of disappearing back into her old life felt like the perfect compromise and honestly just made me really happy.

    Overall, this was such a fun, cozy mystery with a lot more emotional weight than I expected. It’s missing that one spark that would make me want to immediately reread, but I had such a good time with it.

  • Dating After the End of the World — Book Review

    Dating After the End of the World — Book Review

    I went into this one a bit hesitant, as it wasn’t necessarily a book I would have picked up on my own, but I did my best to give it a fair chance, and ultimately landed at a solid three stars.

    My biggest struggle was with the dialogue and character dynamics early on. Conversations often felt stiff or unrealistic, and certain tropes — like the “boys tease the girls they like” mindset — immediately grated on me. It made it difficult to fully invest in the romantic elements, which already leaned heavily into familiar and predictable territory. The love triangle, in particular, was frustrating; neither option felt especially compelling, and it was hard to root for either side when both characters had significant flaws that weren’t meaningfully addressed.

    That said, the premise itself was engaging. I found the apocalyptic elements far more interesting than the romance. Once the story leaned into survival, tension, and the unpredictability of the early days of the outbreak, it picked up considerably. There were moments that genuinely surprised me and raised the stakes, adding a sense of urgency that the interpersonal drama lacked.

    I also appreciated the exploration of how different personalities react under pressure. Even when certain characters annoyed me (and they did), their reactions felt believable in high-stress situations (i.e., impulsive decisions, poorly timed humor, emotional outbursts).

    However, some character choices and plot conveniences pulled me out of the story. Certain individuals seemed to have all the answers too easily, and a few emotional conflicts felt either overextended or underdeveloped, making it harder to fully connect with their arcs.

    Overall, while the romance didn’t work for me, the survival aspects and moments of intensity kept me engaged enough to finish. If you’re a reader who enjoys post-apocalyptic settings with a strong romantic focus, this may work better for you. But if you’re like me and more drawn to the darker, high-stakes elements, your enjoyment may vary.

  • Flowers in the Attic — Book Review **SPOILERS**

    Flowers in the Attic — Book Review **SPOILERS**

    I made the mistake (in my opinion) of starting this book with the foreword by Gillian Flynn, which offers more insight into the novel’s themes and character dynamics than I would have preferred going in. If you’re someone who enjoys experiencing a story as blindly as possible, I would actually recommend skipping it.

    That said, once I moved into the prologue, I was immediately drawn in and filled with a sense of dread. There is something deeply unsettling about the Dollanganger family from the start, not because anything is outwardly wrong, but because everything feels too perfect. It creates an almost anticipatory grief, as though you know something is going to go terribly wrong, you just don’t know when or how.

    What follows is a deeply disturbing exploration of confinement, neglect, and psychological deterioration. The premise alone is horrifying: children hidden away and effectively erased for the sake of preserving appearances and inheritance. But what makes this novel particularly impactful is the passage of time. Months turn into years, and with that, we witness not just physical deprivation, but emotional and developmental loss. Childhood is not simply interrupted, it’s taken.

    Cathy, as a narrator, becomes the emotional anchor of the story. Her gradual awareness of their situation — and her growing understanding of what they are being denied — is heartbreaking. She is forced into a role far beyond her years, acting as a caregiver and stabilizing force for her siblings, all while receiving little protection or reassurance herself. Her frustration, confusion, and resilience feel incredibly grounded and human.

    Chris, too, carries an impossible burden, stepping into a quasi-parental role without guidance, particularly as both he and Cathy begin to navigate adolescence in complete isolation. The absence of appropriate parental figures is felt in every aspect of their development, and the novel does not shy away from the uncomfortable consequences of that absence.

    And then there is Corrine. It is difficult to articulate the level of anger this character inspired in me. While the grandmother’s cruelty is overt and brutal, Corrine’s betrayal feels more insidious. Her neglect is not passive; it is active, deliberate, and self-serving. Her increasing absence, emotional manipulation, and ultimate prioritization of her own comfort over her children’s survival made her, in my view, one of the most infuriating antagonists I’ve encountered in fiction.

    The turning point involving Cory was particularly devastating. By that stage, the novel had already established a pattern of cruelty and neglect, but this moment shifts it into something even darker. The revelation of arsenic poisoning reframes everything that came before it, transforming what might have been perceived as neglect into something far more calculated and unforgivable.

    By the final act, I found myself reading with a mix of urgency and anger; completely absorbed, yet deeply unsettled. This is not an easy book to read, nor is it meant to be. It is uncomfortable, often upsetting, and at times infuriating. And yet, it is undeniably compelling.

    A deeply unsettling but entirely gripping read — 5 stars.

  • The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue — Book Review **SPOILERS**

    The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue — Book Review **SPOILERS**

    Okay I have to start by saying this is such an interesting concept. I’ve definitely read or watched stories before with the “immortal main character” trope, but the way this one alternates between 1700s France and 2010s New York really worked for me. It slowly fills in the context of who Addie is and how she’s survived centuries with this curse hanging over her. It made the story feel layered instead of just “girl lives forever.”

    And the rules of the curse are honestly what hooked me the most. Addie can’t say her name, and anyone she interacts with forgets her almost instantly after she’s gone. The idea that you can exist in the world but leave absolutely no trace? Horrifying, but fascinating. Watching how she navigates life around those limitations was one of my favorite parts of the book.

    Around the first hundred pages I noticed I didn’t have a ton of notes, but that’s honestly because the pacing just worked for me. The back-and-forth timeline helped emphasize just how long Addie has been wandering the world alone. That being said, I struggled with Henry’s chapters at first. His perspective felt very artsy and theatrical and I just couldn’t quite figure out what his role in the story was supposed to be yet. It took me a while to settle into his POV.

    Also: meeting a cute boy in a bookstore immediately gave me Joe Goldberg vibes, which maybe says more about my watch habits than the book itself, but I was definitely side-eyeing that situation at first.

    So when Henry actually remembered Addie, I was SHOCKED. Truly agape. After 300 years of no one remembering her, that moment hit hard.

    At the same time, some of the relationship stuff is where my romance-reader brain struggles a bit. Henry thinks Addie is a literal book thief and still immediately agrees to go get coffee with her? That felt… optimistic. This might just be a me thing, but sometimes the romance elements felt a little unrealistic. Like the first date where they play pinball, see a movie, and Henry suddenly spirals into a full existential confession. I know some people do open up to strangers because they feel less judged, but it still felt fast for people who barely know each other.

    Some conversations also felt a little exposition-heavy, like Bea giving Henry a pep talk that seemed more like it existed so readers could learn more about him. And that underground subway club? Absolute nightmare scenario for me personally. Some of the more “experience-based” scenes — like the color/feelings museum date — were honestly confusing to me, but that’s probably because those types of immersive art experiences just aren’t really my thing.

    Then we get the reveal that Henry’s deal only lasts a year.

    Only. A. Year.

    Bro.

    Once that detail dropped, I could pretty much see where the story was eventually heading. It felt inevitable that everything would lead back to that ticking clock.

    But honestly? Not the worst fate in the world to end up tangled up with Luc, that’s all I’m saying.

    Overall though, I ended up enjoying this book much more than I expected to. The concept is strong, the emotional stakes build beautifully over time, and Addie herself is such a compelling character to follow through centuries of loneliness.

    ⭐ 4 stars — honestly closer to 4.5.
    I really, really enjoyed it.

  • Don’t Let Him In — Book Review **SPOILERS**

    Don’t Let Him In — Book Review **SPOILERS**

    Part One opens and closes with Paddy, a man described as the life of the party, the kind of person who lights up a room the moment he walks in. Naturally, that means he ends up brutally murdered (pushed under a train). At this point I’m convinced being universally loved in thrillers is basically a death sentence.

    By Part Two I was already hooked. The pacing pulls you in quickly, and the rotating perspectives kept the tension building. We follow Ash and her mother Nina in the aftermath of Paddy’s death, while chapters from the past slowly unravel the truth about the man moving into their lives.

    Ash’s insecurity about being 26 and still living at home hit a little too close to home for me. That whole feeling of “falling backward” while everyone else seems to be moving forward is painfully relatable, and it made her perspective feel very grounded.

    Nina moving on with Nick so soon after Paddy’s death definitely raised some alarms. But at the same time, seeing Ash notice that the “light” had returned to her mother’s eyes made the situation complicated. Shared grief can create strong bonds between people; though in this case, Nick’s claim that he had lost someone too felt suspicious from the beginning.

    The structure alternates between Nina/Ash in the present and chapters from Martha, one of Nick’s previous wives. I liked the way the story slowly pieced together his past through these perspectives, though there were moments where I had to pause and keep track of which identity he was operating under.

    And there were a LOT of identities.

    Nick — also known as Simon, Al, and several other names — had a whole trail of destruction behind him: a first wife Amanda and two sons, then Tara, Laura, and Martha, each relationship ending with manipulation, financial ruin, or worse. Watching the layers of his lies unravel was honestly one of the most satisfying parts of the book.

    Some plot elements stretched my suspension of disbelief a bit. The explanation behind Paddy’s murder — the “Silver Man” telling someone to push him onto the tracks — felt a little convenient, especially when the police seemed willing to dismiss it so quickly. Law enforcement overlooking the many red flags surrounding Nick also became a bit frustrating.

    Still, the tension of watching his carefully constructed life start to collapse was compelling.

    By the end, Nick’s web of lies finally catches up to him. Personally, I would have loved a more concrete sense of justice. Knowing he was about to be arrested didn’t feel entirely satisfying to me. This is a man who had slipped through consequences his entire life, so l kept waiting for one last twist where he somehow escaped again.

    Overall, Don’t Let Him In was a really engaging thriller with a strong central antagonist and an addictive structure. Even when a few plot points felt unlikely, the steady unraveling of Nick’s past kept me turning the pages.

    Final Rating: 3.5 stars, rounded up to 4.

  • The Thursday Murder Club — Book Review

    The Thursday Murder Club — Book Review

    From the very first chapter, I was hooked, mostly because Joyce’s diary entries immediately pulled me in. There’s something so charming and disarming about her voice, but also quietly observant in a way that makes you realize she’s noticing far more than she lets on. And honestly, the concept of a group of retirees spending their Thursdays dissecting cold murder cases? That sounds like my ideal retirement plan. The Jigsaw Room alone feels unintentionally sinister — very “Do you want to play a game?” energy — which made the whole premise feel even more fun.

    One of my favorite aspects of this story is how often the older residents are underestimated. Society tends to write people off as they age, assuming they’re forgetful, harmless, or uninvolved; this book completely dismantles that assumption. Elizabeth, Joyce, Ron, and Ibrahim are constantly observing, connecting dots, and quietly staying several steps ahead of everyone else, including the police. There’s something incredibly satisfying about watching them use that invisibility to their advantage. They aren’t just solving a mystery, they’re reclaiming agency in a world that assumes they’ve lost it.

    The found-family dynamic between the Murder Club members was easily one of the strongest emotional cores of the story. Their loyalty to one another, their quiet protectiveness, and the way they show up for each other — even when things get dangerous or painful — made the mystery feel grounded in something much deeper than just a “whodunit.” The relationships, especially Elizabeth’s devotion to Penny and Joyce’s growing confidence and sense of purpose, added so much emotional weight.

    And the mystery itself genuinely surprised me. Every time I thought I had a clear suspect or understood what was happening, the narrative shifted just enough to make me question everything again. New layers of the past slowly surfaced, secrets intertwined, and what initially seemed like a straightforward murder unraveled into something far more complex and human. Nothing felt cheap or random. Every reveal added meaning to what came before it.

    What surprised me most was how well the alternating perspectives worked. Normally that structure can feel disjointed, but here it made the world feel interconnected. Each character offered a piece of the larger puzzle, and together they formed a complete picture: one built on memory, grief, justice, and loyalty.

    Ultimately, this wasn’t just a murder mystery. It was a story about aging, friendship, loss, and the quiet strength people carry with them long after the world stops paying attention. It balanced humor, heart, and suspense beautifully, and I found myself completely invested in these characters.

    I loved this story. It was clever, heartfelt, and genuinely unique — and I already miss spending time with the Murder Club.

  • The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde — Book Review **SPOILERS**

    The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde — Book Review **SPOILERS**

    There’s no subtlety whatsoever in how Hyde is introduced — he tramples a literal child within minutes of appearing, which is honestly such an insane opening move that it immediately sets the tone. Stevenson wanted you to distrust him, to hate him, and it works. But what fascinated me more was how much of that hatred seemed tied to Hyde’s appearance. Everyone describes him as wrong, unsettling, impossible to look at — but rarely explains why. It makes you wonder how much of Hyde’s monstrosity is inherent, and how much of it is perception.

    First of all, “If he be Mr. Hyde, I shall be Mr. Seek.” Absolutely brilliant line. No notes. Utterson immediately positioning himself as the one who will uncover the truth makes the mystery feel deliberate, like we’re watching someone slowly pull on a thread that’s been waiting to unravel.

    I’ll admit, I struggled at times keeping track of everyone when they’re all just “Mr. Something.” Please. First names. Nicknames. Anything. But the moment where Hyde’s handwriting is discovered to be the same as Jekyll’s, just slanted differently, was incredible. Those are the kinds of reveals I live for, especially because it wasn’t some grand authority figure who noticed, but a clerk. A servant. Someone easily overlooked. It makes the discovery feel more grounded and real.

    What I found most compelling, though, was Jekyll’s reasoning. The desire to split yourself in two — to separate your respectable self from your darker impulses — is disturbingly understandable. The appeal of disappearing, of escaping consequences, of indulging parts of yourself without accountability, it’s human. That’s what makes it unsettling. Hyde isn’t just evil for the sake of evil; he’s freedom without restraint. And that’s far more terrifying.

    I loved ending on Jekyll’s confession. I’m always a sucker for letter reveals, and getting his perspective reframed everything that came before it. You finally see the cost of what he thought he could control.

    I’m giving it 4 stars. I genuinely enjoyed it, but it almost feels like a glimpse of something larger rather than the full story. If it had gone deeper — spent more time exploring Jekyll’s internal conflict, or Hyde’s growing influence — I think it would’ve been something I’d revisit again and again. As it is, it’s powerful, iconic, and fascinating, but it leaves you wishing for just a little more.

  • Dear Debbie — Review **SPOILERS**

    Dear Debbie — Review **SPOILERS**

    Frieda McFadden’s novels are always a mixed bag for me. Just using her author’s note as an example, I appreciate that she makes her books accessible and includes a full list of trigger warnings, but the tone she uses sometimes just doesn’t land for me personally. There’s a certain playful, almost overly sanitized way she frames things, like spelling out “S-E-X” as if to keep things feeling intentionally PG, and it pulls me out of the experience a bit. I get that it’s meant to be tongue-in-cheek, but it just doesn’t match the darker themes the story is actually exploring.

    That disconnect kind of carries over into the characters too. Frieda’s characters always feel heightened, but here especially, everyone feels turned up to eleven. Lexi is teenagery in the most exaggerated, snark-at-every-turn way, and the dialogue between her and Debbie didn’t feel natural to me. There were multiple moments where people said things that no one would realistically say out loud, including one of those cringey “and then everybody clapped” type scenes that completely broke the immersion. Even some of the plot reveals — like the rumors about Debbie’s daughter’s coach — felt like information that realistically would have surfaced much earlier, especially if multiple girls were involved.

    But where the book started to hook me was with Debbie herself.

    The “Dear Debbie” drafts were easily one of the more interesting parts of the story. Watching her casually suggesting things like kidnapping and eardrum mutilation was unsettling in the best way, because it hinted at something darker beneath the surface of this mild-mannered suburban mom everyone underestimated. And that’s really the heart of the story: Debbie isn’t just snapping out of nowhere. She’s someone who is clearly intelligent, capable, and creative. She went to college and designed phone applications. She had ambition. But over time, she was flattened into a role that made her invisible. A housewife, a mother. Someone easy to dismiss.

    And everyone did dismiss her.

    Her husband, her friends, her children, the other housewives around her — they all viewed her through this narrow, outdated lens of what a “mild-mannered housewife” is supposed to be. There’s this constant undercurrent of misogyny in her world, where she’s talked down to, underestimated, and quietly devalued. It honestly made it hard not to root for her, even as she started doing objectively awful things. When she poisoned the book club food right after inviting someone new — not as a victim, but as a potential witness — I was both shocked and impressed. It was ruthless, calculated, and so far removed from the Debbie everyone thought they knew.

    As the story progresses, you can feel the shift. People start noticing that something is off, but even then, they don’t really see her. They just sense that she’s no longer neatly fitting into the box they put her in.

    The twists toward the end genuinely surprised me, which I’ll always give Frieda credit for. She knows how to construct a reveal in a way that reframes everything that came before it. Some parts stretched believability — especially the extent to which Debbie’s tech skills conveniently erased all evidence — but it didn’t ruin the experience. It was more one of those “okay, that’s a bit convenient” moments, rather than something that completely broke the story.

    And that line — “Don’t worry, this will be over in a minute” —  being echoed later in a completely different context was easily one of the most satisfying moments in the book. It transformed something disgusting and powerless into something controlled and final. That reversal was done really well.

    Overall, “Dear Debbie” kept me engaged the entire time, even when the dialogue felt forced or the characters felt exaggerated. Debbie’s transformation was compelling enough to carry the story. It’s not my favorite Frieda McFadden book, and there were definitely moments where I struggled with the realism and tone, but the twists were effective, and Debbie herself was fascinating to watch unravel.

    2.5 stars, rounded up to 3.

  • Mexican Gothic — Review **SPOILERS**

    Mexican Gothic — Review **SPOILERS**

    Not even ten pages in and I was already hooked. A frantic letter from Catalina about ghosts, voices in the walls, poison in the air? Say less. I was locked in immediately. The dread starts early, and it never really lets up.

    But also: WHYYY would Noemí agree to go visit her obviously possessed cousin in an obviously haunted house??? I know it’s the 1950s and women were expected to obey their fathers and maintain appearances, but the second I heard about High Place I was like absolutely not. That manor is the definition of once-beautiful, now-rotting grandeur. Mold creeping up the walls, decay seeping into everything — you can practically smell it through the pages, and I was not happy to be forced among those walls. (But I was also excited, nervously anticipating every little thing that happened!)

    And the DINNER RULE. No talking at the table?? I would have combusted. The silence, the tension, the scrutiny; I need to yap to survive awkwardness.

    Noemí, though? Kind of a badass. She’s glamorous, sharp, and far more intelligent than the Doyles give her credit for. She pushes back without being reckless, and holds her ground while still playing the polite social game she’s forced into. I loved that about her. She didn’t make the typical kind of horror-movie decisions that make you want to scream at the page.

    The Doyle family dynamics are deeply unsettling. I was a little confused at first about the history — especially once Ruth enters the picture and we learn about the earlier violence — but the confusion almost works in the story’s favor. It mirrors how disorienting High Place feels. Florence is cold and cruel, her son seems sweet and tragically trapped, and Howard Doyle? Absolutely vile. The man talking about “forging a new race” and “superior and inferior types” made my skin crawl.

    And Virgil… Ugh. That’s what makes him scary. He’s convincing. Charming when he wants to be. There were moments where I almost felt bad for hating him; then I’d remember the manipulation, the control, the way he moves through rooms like he owns everyone in them. Every time Noemí left something out of her letters to her father — the sleepwalking, the rash, the escalating creepiness — I was internally screaming “THIS IS THE TIME TO WORRY!”

    Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s descriptions are disgustingly beautiful. The dream sequences — the house beating like a heart, wallpaper peeling back to reveal arteries and flesh — were visceral and hypnotic. Gothic horror at its finest. It’s lush, sensory, and suffocating in the best way.

    The deeper the story goes, the darker it gets: the curse, the incest, the generational rot, the way entitlement and colonial arrogance metastasize into something literally monstrous. It’s horrifying not just because it’s supernatural, but because it’s rooted in very real historical ideologies.

    What I appreciated most is that Noemí’s frustration as a woman in that time period felt real. The guilt. The loyalty. The expectation to endure. She would have been LONG gone and SAFE in a modern setting, but in 1950s Mexico, that social pressure traps her almost as effectively as the house does. That tension adds so much weight.

    And somehow, after all that decay and corruption, we get a satisfying ending. Earned. Hopeful. Cathartic. Thank God.

    The premise felt fresh and unique, the atmosphere was thick and immersive, the characters were layered and believable, and the horror was both psychological and grotesque.

    Five stars. I loved it.

  • Book Review — Chasing the Boogeyman

    Book Review — Chasing the Boogeyman

    “Chasing the Boogeyman” was one of those reads where I kept pausing just to sit with how WELL it was working for me.

    Going right into it, I didn’t know how I’d feel about the author’s introduction — those can be hit or miss for me — but I actually really appreciated the insight into Richard Chizmar’s background and what pushed him to write this story. There are a couple of lines in there that have stuck with me, especially the idea that some things in life (and death) aren’t meant to be understood. That sentiment becomes the backbone of the entire book.

    The early town history dump immediately made me think of Stephen King (who’d have thunk?) — from the suspicious fire at The Black Hole (a ramshackle jazz club that absolutely feels like a cousin to The Black Spot from “IT”), to the way childhood, evil, and location are all tied together. And while King tends to weave his history slowly through the narrative, Chizmar lays it out upfront. Normally that would bother me, but here it actually works, especially paired with his explanation that towns have two faces: the public one, and the secret one. Once that clicked, I loved the setup.

    The blend of true crime elements with the narrative is incredibly effective. The factual details, police interrogations, and real-feeling documentation ground everything in a way that constantly made me forget I was reading fiction. The crime scene photos and author-provided images added so much atmosphere; it’s unsettling in the best way, like you’re flipping through a folder of evidence instead of pages in a book.

    I also really loved the sharp tonal shifts between sections: one moment you’re deep in a police investigation, the next you’re drifting through Chizmar’s lush, almost poetic description of a Fourth of July parade. That contrast makes the violence and dread feel even more intrusive, like horror bleeding into moments that should be safe.

    What really got me, though, was the nostalgia. Chizmar captures childhood memories so vividly — the naïve loyalty between friends, the belief that those friendships are forever, that soft, safe warmth that only exists when you don’t know just how dark and cold the world can get. It made the horror hit harder, because I could FEEL what was being threatened.

    There’s a particular line about the killer’s white mask “floating” closer in the darkness that genuinely made me shudder. That single word made the Boogeyman feel less human and more supernatural, otherworldly. Inevitable. Unstoppable.

    And the reveal? My jaw actually dropped. No spoilers, but I truly did not see it coming. Which I suppose was the point; that in keeping it from his limited perspective, Chizmar presented a narrative that was real, emotional, and truly frightening.

    Overall, this felt like true crime amplified: nonfiction textures blended with sensationalized fiction, photos, interviews, and deeply personal reflection. Chizmar didn’t just tell me a story, he dropped me into the town and left me there, forced to watch everything unfold as one of the townspeople.