It’s raining outside, the skies are gloomy, and darkness settles in by 5 PM. November has officially arrived, bringing chilly evenings, endless coffee, and the perfect excuse to disappear into another thriller. Even the mildest mysteries feel a little more sinister this time of year.
My latest read, What She Saw by Mary Burton, takes us to a small Virginia mountain town where secrets have been buried for over thirty years. In 1994, four women vanished during a music festival. A man was convicted of their murders, but their bodies were never recovered. Now, cold case reporter Sloane Grayson returns to investigate, hoping to finally discover what happened to her mother. The convicted killer insists he’s innocent, the locals would rather forget, and someone is still willing to kill to keep the past buried.
One thing I appreciate about Burton’s thrillers is the little touch of romance woven into the darkness. This time, it’s the chemistry between Sloane and the local sheriff helping her investigate the case under the convenient excuse of writing a book. And, after reading my second Mary Burton novel, I’m seriously considering buying myself a cabin somewhere in the Virginia mountains. Her settngs are that good. But here’s the thing. I love thrillers, yet somehow I always gravitate toward the saddest stories. I was initially obsessed with the premise: a journalist digging into a decades-old cold case, determined to find four missing women. It sounded like my perfect kind of mystery. But it also reminded me of a real-life case involving a young blonde woman who disappeared after a Metallica concert and was never found. Stories like that genuinely break my heart.
Maybe the weather isn’t helping either. It’s been raining for days, and not even the dramatic, cozy thunderstorm kind of rain. Just endless November gloom. Also, genuine question: do you enjoy these little journal entries, or are you strictly here for the book reviews? I’m curious. Now, onto my biggest issue with Mary Burton: the pacing. This is the second book of hers I’ve read, and somehow a 300-something-page thriller manages to feel like 700 pages. By the 35% mark, I was already wondering when things would finally pick up. The mystery is intriguing, the atmosphere is excellent, and there are enough suspicious characters and buried secrets to keep you guessing, but getting to the answers feels painfully slow.
What saves Burton’s books for me is the ending. She knows how to unravel a mystery, expose the people responsible, and deliver that satisfying sense of justice I’ve been waiting for. The problem? Justice arrives at approximately 1 km/h. I think I’ll be taking a little break from Mary Burton. Not because her stories aren’t good, but because sometimes I want my thrillers to actually thrill me before the final fifty pages.
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