The Coffins of Little Hope was a charming read about a mystery in a small town. It had passages like this:
“We could endlessly reminisce, live in the past to an unhealthy degree, then politely kill each other some winter night before bedtime, stirring poison into our cups of whiskey-spiked chamomile tea, wearing party hats. Then, nervous about our double homicide, we could lie in bed together, holding hands again, frightened and waiting, still wondering, after all these years, if we even believed in our own souls.”
Gorgeous, right? I adored the characters (an octogenarian obit writer and her family) and the premise was fascinating. At the end though, it felt like things petered out a bit. Still a pretty great read. 6/10.
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