This novel isn’t just a who-dun-it. This novel is a what-the-f*ck-even-got-dun.
Why I love it
Every time I read a thriller, I imagine myself in a race against the author. I ask myself, "Can I guess the big twist before the author reveals it?" always confident that the answer is yes. Still, I stay up late into the night finishing these books. I read until daylight breaks. I read until I know for certain that my theory is correct.
I was dead wrong about the ending of Behind Her Eyes.
When I shut the pages of Sarah Pinborough’s novel, I experienced a peculiar sense of terror, admiration, and satisfaction. I closed the book, clenched my eyes, and tried mightily to fall asleep. But just as I began to retreat to the safety of my dreams, I remembered: it’s not safe there either.
You’ll find out what I mean.
So with sleep out of the question, I flipped the novel to the front cover and began to read again; this time, I savored each clue, each character, each turn of phrase. I saw then that the author had wasted absolutely nothing. Each and every sentence inches the story closer to its intoxicating ending.
Behind Her Eyes begins as domestic thrillers often do: at a breaking point between a husband and wife. David is a handsome, successful psychologist, and Adele is his lovely, troubled wife. The pair have abruptly moved to London, and in their new home, David strikes up an affair with his receptionist, a single mother named Louise. There is, of course, more to the story—much more—which I won’t mention at this point. But I will say that the tension builds steadily, page after page.
Behind Her Eyes stumped and electrified me. What I failed to see is that Sarah Pinborough is playing an entirely new game. This novel isn’t just a who-dun-it. This novel is a what-the-fuck-even-got-dun.
My advice for reading this novel? Don’t rush it. Don’t read it alone. Don’t spoil the ending for your friends.