I could cry. I finished another book series. I loved it. I miss the characters already and my tablet is still hot. Five books of pure bliss.
When I started high school, I discovered the school library had a whole bunch of books by a lady named Agatha Christie. I devoured them. All. I could never guess who the murderer was. The best one? The Murder of Roger Akroyd. A classic. Genius.
After that, I was hooked on mysteries. P.D. James, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (meh), then a whole bunch of more contemporary writers and more mysteries. No one was ever as good as Agatha Christie to keep you guessing until the end.
This series wasn’t like Agatha either. I usually guessed by 70%-80% of the books who had done it, or had a pretty good idea. Only one blew me away.
But I didn’t care.
The romance between the bookshop owner and the cop/PI was what got me.
It spans on all five books and couldn’t have been written better. It was FABULOUS. Would they? Wouldn’t they? Finally? No? What the fuck do you mean he’s getting married? Aaarrrgghhh!!!! Damn you author! I hate you! Okay, I don’t hate you anymore. What????? You had to throw that in there? Just to fuck things up??? I’m going to die….. Oh. Okay. I feel better now. Thanks.
Each book has its own murder to be solved. But each book is just a continuation in the long and peppered-with-angst love story. What a romance. Wow.
Such deep, intelligent characters. I’ll miss them.
I’ve done this to myself again. I’ve gotten deeply sucked in a good series and now will miss the characters I’ve been living with for the past sixteen days.
I know I’ll do it again too.
To read and weep is better than not to have read at all. (Who said that?)