????? "The Coldest Hour? More like the dullest."
I loved Evan’s earlier books, but this one felt like a ghost of his former storytelling. Flat characters, a predictable plot, and zero tension. It’s like he phoned this one in.
????? "Disappointed doesn’t even cover it."
I preordered this with so much excitement and was left wondering if he evenwantedto write it. The pacing was sluggish, and the heart just wasn’t there. Sad to see a once-great author coast on past success.
????? "Is Evan okay?"
This book made me wonder if Evan’s lost his spark—or his editor. It reads like someone going through the motions. Where’s the sharp dialogue and gripping twists we used to get?
????? "Feels like he’s bored—and now I am too."
I used to recommend Evan’s thrillers to everyone. Now I hesitate to even read them myself.The Coldest Hourreads like someone tired of their own story.
????? "Evan can do no wrong!"
Even when he's not at his best (and this wasn't his absolute best), Evan's worst is still better than most authors' best. I'm ride or die for his books.
????? "Still my favorite author."
This wasn't my favorite of his books, but the writing is still solid, and the mood waschef's kiss. I trust Evan to take me somewhere—even if it's a slower ride.
And while not all my reviews are terrible and my royalty checks haven’t taken a hit, I’ve been struggling to figure out if this is it for me. If I have any stories left to tell, or if like all good things, they eventually come to an end.
I shake my head. “No.”
And if Lily was just a regular woman, this would be the end of the conversation. But she’s not. My assistant is my little sister.
Lily grew up learning how to rise to a challenge, not cower from it. And unfortunately, that is my own fault.
“Melanie would like you to message BarrettBeyondTheBadge and get their contact info,” she adds, crossing her arms to mirror me.
We’re not twins, but there is absolutely no doubt that we are siblings. Our blond hair and brown eyes are the same shade, and our noses have the same sharp edge.
I grunt. “And you can’t message this…writer?”
Lily grins at me. “Well, I could, but I think it would be best coming from the author. It might make them wonder and respond. I’m sure they get enough spam messages as it is.”
“I hate you,” I say, even though the words don’t sound hateful at all.
Lily knows it. I know it.
Her phone buzzes again, and her attention is back to the screen, typing away.
“I love you, too,” she finally replies without looking up. “You’ll thank me someday.”
Then I do what any thirty-four-year-old mature man should do. I storm off to my office, slamming the flimsy door so it rattles in the doorframe.
The office I rent is a bit impractical. It’s four walls, a window, and a door that used to have a lock, but Lily uninstalled it because she refuses to be locked out when she wants to bother me. I had Lily buy some practical furniture. There’s a simple black couch, a desk, and she’d hung up awards and framed her favorite photos and headlines from articles praising my success. I couldn't care less about those details, but I care about Lily, and she says these things are important.
I could easily write from my apartment, or a coffee shop, or a library like many authors do. But there’s something about treating my writing like a job that makes it feel controlled. I have a scheduleand a work address. Practicality, to me, is important. Precision even more so. I’m not a fantasy writer after all, or one of those dreaded romance writers. My words aren’t made of magic, wishes, or whims. There are no third-act breakups or ludicrous meet cutes.
I write murders.
Murders that are serious and perfectly calculated, but with enough mystery between the lines to keep a reader turning each page. Murders that might be fictional but are influenced by facts, not by the foolishness of feelings.
And I’m good.
