RJ.Reads: Sorry, took a while because I was brainstorming titles that would be “fun” for the one and only BookshopGirl. Something superlong (obviously), complex and layered, with thought-provoking themes, and a satisfying but not-too-neat ending. I finally settled on one of my brother’s favorite books that he made us all listen to on a road trip. It’s a backlist title, you can probably get it at the library. Are you ready?

BookshopGirl: After that introduction? I’m on pins and needles.

RJ.Reads: Ha. I’m sure.

BookshopGirl: So what’s the book???

RJ.Reads: 11/22/63.

I stare at his message, confused. Is that the pub date? I do a quick Google search.

BookshopGirl: By Stephen King? I’m not really a horror fan.

RJ.Reads: This isn’t horror, it’s a blend of science fiction and historical fiction. With an incredibly unique and intricate plot. And a protagonist you can root for. And a love story, but not a typical one. It’s like a fully balanced meal in one eight-hundred-page book—meat and potatoes, vegetables, and dessert.

A smile tugs at my lips.

BookshopGirl: Okay. I’ll give it a try.

—

The next morning is Saturday, which means it’s time for my inaugural meeting of the Literary Collective.

Today’s selection is a literary thriller about a small-town sheriff who’s secretly a serial killer investigating his own crimes. What makes it special is the spare, almost bleak prose, so devoid of emotion that it invites the reader to use their imagination to embroider events, heightening the sense of terror unfolding on the pages.

I loved it. (And so did PAW. She blurbed it.)

Judging by the discussion, so did many of our readers. About two dozen people attend, many of them familiar faces, though several have brought friends. There’s also a group of five middle-aged women wearing matching sparkly pink shirts. I’m pretty sure they’re in the wrong place, but it’s too late to let them know.

We’re discussing the main character, and Marc Stapleton—a fifty-something regular with a bushy brown beard—raises his hand. “I know the sheriff is a murderer, but experiencing the story through his eyes turns everything upside down. I started to doubt my own judgments about morality.”

“That’s fascinating,” I say. “Other thoughts from the group about the main character?”

In the back of the room, one of the women in pink raises her hand. “Did anyone else think he was kind of hot?”

Two people turn to stare at her, horrified. Georgia, who’s sitting in the front row to support me, stifles a smile.

“Well,” I say, my cheeks heating with embarrassment, “he murdered twenty-three people—”

“I could have changed him,” the woman sitting next to her says, and the women in her group dissolve into giggles.