About three months ago, I got a text from one of my best
friends who happens to live in England. She is a reader
as well, but we usually gravitate towards different
genres. She's more of a crime/suspense buff, while I tend
to stick to romance and stories with romantic elements.
We cross over into each other's genres for sure, but not
as often. Which means that when she texts me to tell me I
absolutely must read a book or she will no longer speak
to me (a close approximation of the text), I take it
seriously.
The book from that text was I LET YOU GO and at that
point was not available in the U.S. I told her I put it
on my TBR and would keep an eye out for it. All she told
me about it was that it has stayed with her for months
and she needed to talk about it with someone. I promised
her that as soon as I could get my hands on it, I would.
So when I LET YOU GO became available as a reviewer's
copy, I leaped at the chance to experience what my friend
was going on about.
Y'all.
OHMYHOLYHELLGOSHDARNIT THIS BOOK.
I was late for work because I fell head first into this
story. I ignored my husband for an entire evening because
of this story. I now want to read everything Clare
Mackintosh has ever written.
I will tell you nothing of the plot - but the comparisons
to GONE GIRL and GIRL ON A TRAIN are not without merit. I
will tell you there is a plot line involving domestic
violence and one involving sociopathic stalking. They are
properly depicted from my professional perspective as
someone who has worked with abuse survivors for a number
of years. In fact, let me take that one step further. One
of my other best friends - not the lady in England - is a
survivor of systemic sexual assault. She also happens to
be a bookseller and so I told her to not pick up this
book because the descriptions are so spot on and so
graphic that I know it would trigger flashbacks for her.
And I say that all as a compliment.
If you enjoy taut thrillers with twists you can't quite
see coming and plots that are properly tied up at the end
- then get I LET YOU O. It's not perfect - there's a whole
thing with a potential affair I could have done
completely without - but it is so good and so worth your
time. Read I LET YOU GO before everyone else does so you can
be the
smug expert when the rest of the world tongue baths it.
The next blockbuster thriller for those who loved The Girl on the Train and Gone Girl... “a finely crafted novel with a killer twist.” (Paula Hawkins, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Girl on the Train) On a rainy afternoon, a mother's life is shattered as her son slips from her grip and runs into the street . . .
I Let You Go follows Jenna Gray as she moves to a ramshackle cottage on the remote Welsh coast, trying to escape the memory of the car accident that plays again and again in her mind and desperate to heal from the loss of her child and the rest of her painful past.
At the same time, the novel tracks the pair of Bristol police investigators trying to get to the bottom of this hit-and-run. As they chase down one hopeless lead after another, they find themselves as drawn to each other as they are to the frustrating, twist-filled case before them. Elizabeth Haynes, author of Into the Darkest Corner, says, “I read I Let You Go in two sittings; it made me cry (at least twice), made me gasp out loud (once), and above all made me wish I'd written it . . . a stellar achievement.” *Peter James, author of Want You Dead
Excerpt
The wind flicks wet hair across her face, and she screws up her eyes against the rain. Weather like this makes everyone hurry, scurrying past on slip- pery pavements with chins buried into collars. Passing cars send spray over their shoes, the noise from the traffic making it impossible for her to hear more than a few words of the chattering update that began the moment the school gates opened. The words burst from him without a break, mixed up and back to front in the excitement of this new world into which he is growing. She makes out something about a best friend, a project on space, a new teacher, and she looks down and smiles at his excitement, ignoring the cold that weaves its way through her scarf. The boy grins back and tips up his head to taste the rain, wet eyelashes forming dark clumps around his eyes. “And I can write my name, Mummy!” “You clever boy,” she says, stopping to kiss him fiercely on his damp forehead. “Will you show me when you get home?” They walk as quickly as five-year-old legs will allow, her free hand holding his bag, which bangs against her knees. Nearly home. Headlights glint on wet tarmac, the dazzle blinding them every few seconds. Waiting for a break in the traffic, they duck across the busy road, and she tightens her grip on the small hand inside the soft woolen glove, so he has to run to keep up. Sodden leaves cling to the railings, their bright colors darkening to a dull brown. They reach the quiet street where home lies just around the corner, its seductive warmth a welcome thought. Secure in the environs of her own neighborhood, she lets go of his hand to push away the strands of wet hair from her eyes, laughing at the cascade of droplets it causes. “There,” she says, as they make the final turn. “I left the light on for us.” Across the street, a redbrick house. Two bedrooms, the tiniest kitchen,and a garden crammed with pots she always means to fill with flowers. Just the two of them. “I’ll race you, Mummy . . .” He never stops moving; full of energy from the second he wakes until the moment his head hits the pillow. Always jumping, always running. “Come on!” It happens in a heartbeat; the feeling of space by her side as he runs toward home, seeking out the warmth of the hall, with its porch-light glow. Milk, biscuit, twenty minutes of television, fish fingers for tea. The routine they have fallen into so quickly, barely halfway through that first term at school. The car comes from nowhere. The squeal of wet brakes, the thud of a five- year-old boy hitting the windshield and the spin of his body before it slams onto the road. Running after him, in front of the still-moving car. Slipping and falling heavily onto outstretched hands, the impact taking her breath away. It’s over in a heartbeat. She crouches beside him, searching frantically for a pulse. Watches her breath form a solitary white cloud in the air. Sees the dark shadow form beneath his head and hears her own wail as though it comes from someone else. She looks up at the blurred windshield, its wipers sending arcs of water into the darkening night, and she screams at the unseen driver to help her. Leaning forward to warm the boy with her body, she holds her coat open over them both, its hem drinking surface water from the road. And as she kisses him and begs him to wake, the pool of yellow light that envel- ops them shrinks to a narrow beam; the car backs up the street. Engine whining in admonishment, the car makes two, three, four attempts to turn in the narrow street, scraping in its haste against one of the huge sycamore sentries lining the road. And then it is dark.
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