Monday, June 22, 2020

THEY DID BAD THINGS :: Lauren A. Forry


Lauren A. Forry's They Did Bad Things is an Agatha Christie-esque mystery that is engaging but ultimately fell short of the mark. It begins with a diary found at the entrance to Wolfheather House on the Isle of Doon. Unfortunately, the diary has missing pages that have not been recovered. Pages of the diary are interspersed with the past and present of Hollis Drummond, Maeve Okafor, Eleanor Hunt, Oliver Holcombe, and Lorna Torrington. Missing from the present is Callum, who was murdered by one of the others in September 1994 while the six were living together in student housing at 215 Caldwell Street.

Each went their own way after Callum's death, putting the bad things they did behind them. Now they have each come to Wolfheather House under false pretenses, none knowing the others will be present. Who has summoned them there and why is spun out over the course of the novel as bodies begin to drop and already worn relationships fray further and old wounds and desires play out.

I love reading about shitty people. It's kind of my jam and I should probably get therapy about it. But these people weren't really interesting in their shittiness, which meant I was never invested in who did what and why. I wasn't rooting for or against anyone. The one character I thought was going to put a cool spin on things was killed early on.

There were some cool elements. I thought the concept was great and the ways the puppeteer worked them over with details from Caldwell Street was great. On the flip side, the identity of the string-puller was no great surprise, the murder of Callum was for very strange reasons and didn't have much oomph behind it, and I was not really bummed at any demise save the one. Yes, these people all did bad things, they just weren't very compellingly played out. Ultimately, I didn't care how the book ended. It does have a rockin' great cover. 

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About Malcolm Avenue Review

I was lucky enough to be born and raised in a nifty, oak-shaded ranch house on Malcolm Avenue, a wide-laned residential street with little through traffic, located amid the foothills of Northern California. It was on that street and in that house I learned most of my adolescent life lessons, and many grown-up ones to boot. Malcolm Avenue was "home" for more than thirty years.

It was on Malcolm Avenue, through and with my family and the other families that made up our neighborhood of characters, that I first learned about and gained an appreciation for the things I continue to love the most to this day: music, animals, photography, sports, television/movies and, of course, books.

I owe a debt of gratitude to that life on Malcolm Avenue. It gave me a sense of community and friendship, support and adventure. For better and worse, life on that street likely had the biggest impact on the person I've become. So this blog, and the things I write here, are all, at their base level, a little bit of a love letter to Malcolm Avenue.

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