What I can’t stand, is that Hen is set up as mentally unwell and suicidal in order to justify her role as the unreliable narrator. I’m nosy as fuck and people are terrible. This might be because I’ve always felt that would be me one day. There’s nothing I like more than a murder mystery where the only one who knows what’s going on is a regular citizen spying on her neighbours, with zero power to do anything about what she suspects.

She’s an artist who works from home, and wouldn’t you just know it, she eventually suspects her neighbour, Matt, is a serial killer. Before She Knew Him has serious Rear Window vibes when Hen and her douchebag husband, Lloyd, move to a small town outside of Boston so that Hen can find some peace and quiet while attempting to get the symptoms of her bipolar disorder under control. This, like a lot of Swanson’s work, seems to borrow heavy inspiration from Hitchcock, but just isn’t doing it as well as the original or adding anything new to the template. It’s better than All the Beautiful Lies (which was a goddamn snoozer,) but it’s still not touching me the way my first time with Swanson did (that’s what she said.) Before She Knew Him is no exception to that struggle. Since then, I’ve picked up Swanson’s work a few more times with optimistic expectations and have struggled with each reading. Despite the characters being dull as hell, the plot was completely engrossing and the twists, duelling narrations and dark Strangers on a Train-like premise kicked me right in the crotch. The first book I ever read by Peter Swanson was The Kind Worth Killing and it totally impressed me enough to grab a four-star rating from my crabby, judgmental ass. Filed Under: No one cares about your sports trophies in real life.

Before She Knew Him by Peter Swanson