My dad seemed too smart to read thrillers. And yet, he raced out to buy every new Michael Creighton release.
I considered his choices as simple-minded Hardy Boys’ mysteries on steroids.
Until I started reading thrillers.
A cerebral Louise Penny mystery will trap me indoors, even on a sunny day. New author Jane Harper, recently ambushed me with terror in the Australian countryside as I read The Dry. Sarah Pinborough bored me a little with her character’s shallow, lovey dovey talk in Behind Her Eyes but the ending terrified me. Deliciously.
For my book club, I’m now reading Candace Millard’s The River of Doubt: Theodore Roosevelt’s Darkest Journey, an account of Roosevelt’s punishing trip down the Amazon River.
It’s OK. But I’m guessing it won’t keep me up at night.