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| Stuart Turton |
Poisoning the bleak landscape of Blackheath manor was another murder exactly 19 years prior. The isolated gothic gloominess served as a perdition that spawned a deluge of dirty secrets, impending deaths, and a plethora of blackmailing materials to keep everybody's panties knotted into a desperate bunch of nervous perspiration. Nobody was reliable, and everybody was his or her worst enemy only secondary to a lurking serial killer and cunning competitor(s) to push the suspense of this twisted who-done-it over the edge .
The multiple perspectives, twists, and turns commanded my undivided attention and kept me guessing the whole time. The concept was reminiscent of certain episodes of the science fiction anthology television series Black Mirror in its what-the-bloody-hell-just-happened factors; the execution was neatly planned, smartly intricate, curiously teasing with enough red-herrings to feel smart guessing, and somehow ended up a strangely cathartic tale of forgiveness and redemption.
What a thrilling experience it was!
