In the last week, I’ve gobbled up five thrillers. I started Caitlin Wahrer’s The Damage during God knows what NFL game this past Sunday afternoon, and finished it Monday morning. Prior to that, I sucked down The Last Thing He Told Me, by Laura Dave, The Next Wife, by Liz Lawler, and Kerry Fisher’s The Silent Wife. (There are actually two books called The Silent Wife. The other is by A.S.A Harrison and I’ve read it twice. It’s that good.)

I also wolfed down Not A Happy Family by Shari Lapena. The entire story is incredible, and the ending is jaw dropping.

It’s true. I’m a fast reader. But you can’t help but read these books fast – they’re so good, they’re some of the best thrillers out now, you can’t put them down.

Stop for dinner? Not hungry.

Stop for bed? I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

Or when I run out of thrillers to read.

Eek! The thought of running out of these completely engrossing, fast-paced, incredibly crafted works terrifies me. I require a constant supply, arriving daily, shoved in the mailbox, dropped at the front door, or carried in after a quick trip to Barnes & Noble. I need to know, I must know, that the next one is there, patiently awaiting my cries of “Oh my God!” and “Who thinks of these things?” and quick – very quick—texts to my sister-in-law Nancy that include a photo of the book and a simple THIS BOOK! to which she usually responds, I KNOW!

To be honest, Nancy is my #1 book source. The woman scours the book reviews, discovers the best (well we think they’re the best), and then reads each like a house on fire. And then, because she loves me and she knows what a junkie I am for this stuff, she sends me a quick list of what she just finished and what’s waiting for her on her nightstand.

Yes. I’m a junkie and she’s my supplier, my personal pusher. Forever it must be.

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