I was warned.
Right there in the book blurb, printed in italics so you couldn’t miss it: There are no truly happy endings in Noir.
Did I heed the warning, did I even understand it? No.
If I had paid more attention to the author’s alert—”for mature readers who enjoy the darkness and moral ambiguity of noir stories.”
If I’d been less intrigued by the line—”Cole fell for the suave Leo Mancini the day they met, but is it ever really possible to trust a liar—especially when Mancini makes a murder suggestion sound like a marriage proposal?”
I would have missed not just a beautifully crafted story, but a visceral experience.
Yes, yes, and God, yes.
Leighton Greene spins you into a roller-coaster of a ride. Hurtles you through a tunnel of deceit and deception, lies and liars, and dumps you into an inescapable pit of despair. The ending stays with you, and the more you think about it, the worse it gets until you’re curled up under the covers, telling yourself that it’s only fiction.
The most well-written, absorbing, provocative book I’ve read in years? Yes.
Incubus. Read it, if you dare.