Oi. Wassup. I’m in a foul mood, for a variety of reasons. And in order to prevent further trouble, I am rewatching Deadwood (yet again) while typing loudly to make sure everything – and everyone – else stays silent.
So have a fucking book review. Hmmmmm… maybe, Lock Every Door by Riley Sager. Let’s fucking do this.
I hate all of the Sager covers. They’re just lazy. And that colour is vile.
The Summary Heist
No visitors. No nights spent away from the apartment. No disturbing the other residents, all of whom are rich or famous or both. These are the only rules for Jules Larsen’s new job as an apartment sitter at the Bartholomew, one of Manhattan’s most high-profile and mysterious buildings. Recently heartbroken and just plain broke, Jules is taken in by the splendor of her surroundings and accepts the terms, ready to leave her past life behind.
As she gets to know the residents and staff of the Bartholomew, Jules finds herself drawn to fellow apartment sitter Ingrid, who comfortingly, disturbingly reminds her of the sister she lost eight years ago. When Ingrid confides that the Bartholomew is not what it seems and the dark history hidden beneath its gleaming facade is starting to frighten her, Jules brushes it off as a harmless ghost story . . . until the next day, when Ingrid disappears.
Searching for the truth about Ingrid’s disappearance, Jules digs deeper into the Bartholomew’s dark past and into the secrets kept within its walls. Her discovery that Ingrid is not the first apartment sitter to go missing at the Bartholomew pits Jules against the clock as she races to unmask a killer, expose the building’s hidden past, and escape the Bartholomew before her temporary status becomes permanent.
Ugh. I had such high hopes for this one. Just as I’ve had for every Sager book. And like his first two books, this one also let me down.
It started off very strong, with sufficient overtones of Rosemary’s Baby to keep me reading, but I loathed every character, thought the premise of the novel was flimsy, and, when I came to the reveal, wanted to burn this book to a pile of disappointing ashes.
This isn’t horror. It isn’t even mystery. It’s a weekday afternoon showing of a B-movie with all the suspense of an episode of Friends. It’s a lukewarm cup of Ovaltine in book form. Shit. Listening to my grandma talk about the petty intrigues and rivalries of her neighbours was more entertaining, and had a fuckton more suspense than this watered down paint-by-numbers bullshit.
Don’t read it. Read the OG fucked-up hotel story, Rosemary’s Baby, by Ira Levin. Shit, read a goddamn Goosebumps. Any one of them will give you a more compelling narrative than this.
I will never ever remember to take notes while I read, will I? And this is where my website soulmate comes in. Goodreads, what have you?
“Never take anything you haven’t earned, my father used to say. You always end up paying for it one way or another.”
Sure, why not.
Book Boyfriend material
Dr. Nick, obviously. Listen, I know he turned out to be a
murderous organ-harvesting bastard, but he’s a single doctor of marriageable age with dead parents and a penthouse overlooking Central Park, so really… Dr. Nick.
Two out of 10 idiot jobless millennials who’d probably willingly sell a kidney or two to get out of debt in a futile attempt to escape the crushing hellscape wrought by the heartless capitalist model of modern Western society.
ROBYN’S FINAL THOUGHT
I don’t give a fuck what colour my fucking couch is, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m told what colour my fucking couch will be, if you know what I mean.
– xo, R