About this book:
Duet: a performance by two.
But who is acting, and who is devolving?
A buried past is unearthed, and Grayson Sullivan—AKA The Angel of Maine—retaliates against the system who made him, deploying psychological warfare on the woman who initially set him free. Dr. London Noble probes deep into the mind of the killer she’s fallen for, searching for answers, as a copycat killer threatens their unity. Are they partners, lovers, or enemies? One final trap will reveal all.
Release Date: 6th January, 2018.
What I think?
Warning: This review/rant is a bit weird now that I read it, but I promise- no spoilers.
Do NOT ask me if I love this book. I do. I really do. And if you read my review for Born, Darkly, then you know that I already did before even starting this. But that’s not to say this book did not give another layer to an already deeply layered story.
I know what you want to know though, and before I start off with my ranting I tend to call a review, let me answer those:
-Can I read this book before reading Born, Darkly?
-No darlin’, you most absolutely cannot. Don’t ask such blasphemous questions.
-Is this the epilogue tale where H&h live happily ever after?
-No. This is the second installment of a DUET, which means the story continues into this one. Which means it’s not an epilogue tale written for the sole purpose of an HEA. God people these days *cue dramatic eyeroll*.
-Why are you being so weird today? Did you eat some funky mushroom? Wait a minute, do those even grow in India?
-Yes, we have mushrooms in India, and no I did not eat any funky fungi. And also, I’m not being weird. I’m just trying to say “GO READ BORN, DARKLY IF YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY!”
Aaand there goes my voice. Bye bye.. it was good while it lasted.
Oh, you’re still here? Strange! Well stranger things have happened lately, I’ll tell you all about that later, but since you are, you might as well spend some more time here, and listen/read while I rant.
So, I finished Born, Darkly last Sunday, and today is a Friday, and you’re thinking what happened to all the weekdays in between? Well, boredom happened that’s what. No, I’m not saying that this boring at all, quite the contrary actually. But because of my leg I found concentration a hard bitch to befriend, and so I ended up fucking around on internet before finally starting this book.
But once I did- oh you should’ve seen me once I started this book.
We were both casualties in a sense. The loss we suffered not mortal but a death of self. Our identities traumatized. Forced to rebuild our psyche with chipped and flawed fragments.
This book begins right after the first one ended. Grayson has escaped and London has been rescued from the serial killer (or so the law officials think). And there have been a lot more murders in the time Grayson has been missing.
They say he’s devolving.
I learned a new word! OK, not really, but I learned the psychological implication of the word at least.
Love is pain. Real love— the one not spewed in poetry— is agony.
It tears at your soul, strips you bare, drives you mad and demands the veracity of our existence. Love is madness.
A psychopath who has fallen in love with the very woman supposed to cure him of his illness, a detective obsessed on catching said psychopath, an FBI agent who’s equally obsessed with said killer as well as said psychologist, a copycat killer, and a helluva tension= you know what you got?
One huge fucking serving of mind fuck.
The last book mainly focused on London, and it was well represented in the tone of the book- it was serious, tensed and it was a slow evolution from her going from someone afraid and ashamed of her past to her embracing it. This book was mainly told from the POV of Grayson- and it’s evident.
The narration consists of a lot of musings- little quirky dialogues that go on in Grayson’s minds. It’s borderline brilliant how Wolfe portrays his devolving mentality. Grayson shows a level of self awareness that treads that fine line between being a narcissistic monologue and being a satirical self-depreciation. And I didn’t even realize that it was that genius to read until he literally bashed it in my face.
Call me a killer groupie if you want, but I fell in love with him there when he compared himself to a god in one paragraph and then in the next concludes his chapter by calling himself a deluded lunatic.
Let’s talk about the not-so-good doctor for a while now. I don’t want her to feel neglected.
London shows a lot of difference in this book in simply her mindset. Where she was an unsure character in the last book, she embraces her inner ‘demon’ readily in this book, and goes out for blood to protect what’s hers- Grayson.
Their dynamic in this book is flawlessly executed- where the question if it was their nature allowing them to act so seamlessly with each other, or if it was fate- was strongly emphasized on, and I loved it. I loved how easily she got into Grayson’s mind and allowed his trap to come into reality. Plus her nonchalant attitude- I gotta say this, if you’re into the bad bitches kind, then you’d definitely fall in fucking love with her.
By the way, do you want me to talk about the sex scenes?! Because they were s-c-o-r-c-h-i-n-g. Especially that scene where they slit the throat of that rapist and then fucked each other in front of the corpse.. which now that I say it that crudely sounds really sick, but I promise you, it’s good.
Anyways, all those aside, let’s talk about Wolfe’s writing. Like I said in my earlier review, to write a story like this, one needs to be extremely skilled. Each of these characters had such depth, it was admirable how much research might have gone in to build them. And one of my favorite parts was how Wolfe took a black and white and grey world, and showed that sometimes to become a god, you need to become the devil himself. And even though there is no forgiveness for that, all you need to be able to live with is yourself and your own conscience. The narrative did not get unfocused even once, and for her to capture and depict Grayson’s madness, so perfectly was pure art.
I rest my case.
Despite my attempts to be more than— better than— mortal, I’m no god. I’m blood and bone and London is steeped in my marrow.
About this author:
From an early age, Trisha Wolfe dreamed up imaginary worlds and characters and was accused of talking to herself. Today, she lives in South Carolina with her family and writes full time, using her imaginary worlds as an excuse to continue talking to herself.
—Books in this series—