I review Dear Amy by Helen Callaghan.
Margot Lewis is the agony aunt for The Cambridge Enquirer. Her advice column, Dear Amy, gets all kinds of letters – but none like the one she’s just received:
I don’t know where I am. I’ve been kidnapped and am being held prisoner by a strange man. I’m afraid he’ll kill me.
Please help me soon,
Bethan Avery has been missing for years. This is surely some cruel hoax. But, as more letters arrive, they contain information that was never made public. How is this happening? Answering this question will cost Margot everything . . .
I read Dear Amy in a couple of sittings, snatching a few pages on my lunch break and reading late into the night (which, in hindsight, was foolish, as I was really freaked out by certain parts). You know you’re reading a good book when the story reveals a twist, and your stomach jolts, your mouth falls open, and you whisper “oh no” into the darkness.
I also knew Dear Amy was a good book when I jumped from 40% to 71% in the blink of an eye. Where did the time go? I fell down the rabbit hole into Margot’s crazy life, and never thought I’d be able to crawl back out.
Unreliable narrators are great. Seriously. I love a narrator who draws you in, makes you connect with them, empathise with them, even like them, for it all to turn out to be a lie. It’s like a giant middle finger to the readers. I can only imagine any author who does this rubbing their hands together in wicked glee. I’ve done it myself a few times, and have mentally patted myself on the back for being such a brilliant evil genius. Callaghan is also deserving of the title.
I hate to resort to the old cliche of comparing one author to another, but Dear Amy really did remind me of Gone Girl, for all the right reasons. In an attempt to keep this review spoiler free, I won’t say much more, but this book seriously had me running around in circles, and, by the end of it, I was even questioning my own identity. Read it.
Dear Amy is due out in July.
Amazon | @hecallaghan