Fiction

Robert Gleason’s new book, The Evil That Men Do, is a jumble of confusing ideas.

Gonzalo Gil is a middle-aged attorney with a failing career, a fractured marriage, and a domineering father-in-law who wants him to give up his practice and work for his own powerful firm, which is

Great Britain, 1923: Detective Inspector John Redfrye is a blessing to the Cambridge CID.

“a subdued chiller relating how death brings a circle of events to a halt, only to begin once more when a spirit regains admittance into the living world.”

In a world in which books, TV, and the media often seem to be screaming, it’s refreshing to come across a novel that remembers the value of the whisper, of subtlety, and of not having to have every

Sarah Winman's third novel, Tin Man, begins in 1950 in rural Oxfordshire, when a pregnant housewife, Dora, disobeys her husband by choosing a painting over a bottle of whisky at a charity

“the tale of a man who’s offered what many of us say we’d like to have: a chance to do it over again, and again, and again . . .”

Sixteen people are found brutally murdered in an illegal gambling club in Angra Dastrelas, the corrupt capital city of the corporate-owned planet Gattis.

“Then again, true love required so much more than the boy-meets-girl stuff—and mutual attraction was the easy part.”

How does one review a book with no ending?

Shadow Child is a detective story set in 1960s Manhattan, and also a historical saga of a Japanese-American woman during World War II, and also a tale of teen rivalry, which shifts from pa

“an exciting foray into an ancient crime, with a likeable, intelligent heroine . . .”