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Pretty Baby
     

Pretty Baby

4.1 74
by Mary Kubica
 

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"Thrilling and illuminating."—LA Times

"A hypnotic psychological thriller." —People

A chance encounter sparks an unrelenting web of lies in this new gripping and complex psychological thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl and the upcoming page-turner Don't You

Overview

"Thrilling and illuminating."—LA Times

"A hypnotic psychological thriller." —People

A chance encounter sparks an unrelenting web of lies in this new gripping and complex psychological thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl and the upcoming page-turner Don't You Cry, Mary Kubica

She sees the teenage girl on the train platform, standing in the pouring rain, clutching an infant in her arms. She boards a train and is whisked away. But she can't get the girl out of her head…

Heidi Wood has always been a charitable woman: she works for a nonprofit, takes in stray cats. Still, her husband and daughter are horrified when Heidi returns home one day with a young woman named Willow and her four-month-old baby in tow. Disheveled and apparently homeless, this girl could be a criminal—or worse. But despite her family's objections, Heidi invites Willow and the baby to take refuge in their home.

Heidi spends the next few days helping Willow get back on her feet, but as clues into Willow's past begin to surface, Heidi is forced to decide how far she's willing to go to help a stranger. What starts as an act of kindness quickly spirals into a story far more twisted than anyone could have anticipated.

More Praise:

"Hypnotic and anything but predictable." —Kirkus, starred review

"A superb psychological thriller…stunning."—Publishers Weekly, starred review

Read the New York Times bestselling novel that everyone is talking about, The Good Girl, by Mary Kubica!

Look for Mary's latest complex and addictive tale of deceit and obsession, Don't You Cry.

Order your copies today!

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
★ 06/15/2015
Kubica follows her acclaimed debut, 2014’s The Good Girl, with a superb psychological thriller. Heidi Wood’s husband, Chris, and 12-year-old daughter, Zoe, are used to her rants about recycling, poverty, and literacy, as well as her endless, depressing stories about the immigrants and refugees she meets through the Chicago nonprofit for which she works. But her family didn’t expect Heidi to invite homeless teen Willow Greer and her infant, Ruby, to live with them. Heidi, whose dreams of a large family ended when she had a hysterectomy to save her life, becomes obsessed with Willow and especially Ruby, even as her marriage frays and she ignores Zoe. Afraid that Willow could be violent, Chris tries to find out her background and whether Ruby is even her baby. A series of flashbacks shift among the points of view of Heidi, Chris, and Willow as this heartbreaking tale about obsession, foster care, and the debilitating effects of unacknowledged grief builds to a stunning conclusion. 10-city author tour. Agent: Rachael Dillon Fried, Greenburger Associates. (Aug.)
Library Journal
06/15/2015
Heidi and Chris have been married for a while. He works hard as an investment banker to support their lifestyle. She diligently strives to help the underserved of the world. Their daughter, Zoe, is an angry preteen who locks herself into her room and doesn't eat. One day, Heidi spots Willow, a young homeless woman toting a baby, and brings her home. "Just like the stray cats," thinks Chris. With these unusual houseguests, the family's life is turned upside down. Chris and Heidi are forced to confront long-buried traumas brought to the surface by having a baby and a stranger in residence. As events unfold, the narrative alternates between the points of view of Chris and Heidi; Willow's story is told in flashbacks after most of the events of the book are finished. VERDICT Those who appreciate character-driven explorations of human emotion will enjoy Kubica's sophomore effort (after The Good Girl). The major characters are each deep in the midst of their own psychological crises based on past events. There is no notable action, but the story will stir readers just the same. [See Prepub Alert, 3/2/15.]—Elizabeth Masterson, Mecklenburg Cty. Jail Lib., Charlotte, NC
Kirkus Reviews
★ 2015-04-30
Things go dangerously wrong when a middle-class wife and mother impulsively opens her home to a homeless teen and her tiny baby in Kubica's sophomore novel. When Heidi Wood, a woman who can't help herself from helping others, spots a teenage girl with a small baby on the platform of Chicago's train system, her heart goes out to them. Not only is it cold and raining, but the pair is obviously in need of help. Soon, Heidi has spotted the homeless teenager again, and, being the nurturing type, she feels compelled to reach out to her. That annoys her husband, Chris, and selfish 12-year-old daughter, Zoe. But Heidi ignores her husband's misgivings—after all, he's distracted by the new girl at work, Cassidy Knudsen, a lissome blonde who always seems to be nearby when Heidi calls. So when she brings the girl, Willow, and Ruby, her baby, into their condo, it only widens the gap between Heidi and Chris. And, through some clever foreshadowing, the reader knows, almost from the outset, that this isn't going to turn out so well for the Wood family. Kubica skillfully weaves the story together, with Chris, Heidi, and Willow all narrating portions of the tale. As bits and pieces of Willow's story are revealed, the other characters keep the story moving forward toward what the reader knows will be disastrous results. Kubica's debut novel, The Good Girl (2014), also employed multiple points of view and timelines, but Kubica serves up a much more cohesive tale this time around—the story is almost hypnotic and anything but predictable. The writing is compelling, but Kubica's strong point is being able to juggle a complicated plot and holding the reader's interest without dropping any of the balls she has in the air. This book will give insomniacs a compelling reason to sit up all night.
From the Publisher
"Thrilling and illuminating... [Pretty Baby] raises the ante on the genre and announces the welcome second coming of a talent well worth watching." -LA Times

"A hypnotic psychological thriller.... [Pretty Baby] builds to a stunning climax involving revelations you won't see coming." -People

"It's a perfect setup-but the twists you expect aren't the ones that arrive." -NPR

"Suspense done well." -New York Magazine

"Single White Female on steroids.... If you haven't read Mary Kubica yet, you need to start right this minute... This riveting psychological thriller had me turning the pages at warp speed." -Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author of Corrupted

"A twisty, roller coaster ride of a debut. Fans of Gone Girl will embrace this equally evocative tale of a missing woman, shattered family and the lies we tell not just to each other, but especially to ourselves."
-Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Fear Nothing

"Intricately wrought suspense.... This is no familiar game of psychopaths; everyone is deeply flawed but deeply human." -Vulture

"Hypnotic and anything but predictable. This book will give insomniacs a compelling reason to sit up all night."
-Kirkus, starred review

"A superb psychological thriller... stunning." -Publishers Weekly, starred review

"Psychologically rich and pulse pounding, The Good Girl had me hooked from the very first sentence and didn't let go until the final word. I can't wait to see what Mary Kubica comes up with next."
-Heather Gudenkauf, bestselling author of The Weight of Silence and Little Mercies

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780778317708
Publisher:
MIRA
Publication date:
07/28/2015
Pages:
384
Sales rank:
318,724
Product dimensions:
6.20(w) x 9.40(h) x 1.50(d)

Related Subjects

Read an Excerpt

HEIDI

The first time I see her, she is standing at the Fullerton Station, on the train platform, clutching an infant in her arms. She braces herself and the baby as the purple line express soars past and out to Linden. It's the 8th of April, forty-eight degrees and raining. The rain lurches down from the sky, here, there and everywhere, the wind untamed and angry. A bad day for hair.

The girl is dressed in a pair ofjeans, torn at the knee. Her coat is thin and nylon, an army green. She has no hood, no umbrella. She tucks her chin into the coat and stares straight ahead while the rain saturates her. Those around her cower beneath umbrellas, no one offering to share. The baby is quiet, stuffed inside the mother's coat like a joey in a kangaroo pouch. Tufts of slimy pink fleece sneak out from the coat and I convince myself that the baby, sound asleep in what feels to me like utter bedlam—chilled to the bone, the thunderous sound of the "L" soaring past—is a girl.

There's a suitcase beside her feet, vintage leather, brown and worn, beside a pair of lace-up boots, soaked thoroughly through.

She can't be older than sixteen.

She's thin. Malnourished, I tell myself, but maybe she's just thin. Her clothes droop. Her jeans are baggy, her coat too big.

A CTA announcement signals a train approaching, and the brown line pulls into the station. A cluster of morning rush hour commuters crowd into the warmer, drier train, but the girl does not move. I hesitate for a moment—feeling the need to do something—but then board the train like the other do-nothings and, slinking into a seat, watch out the window as the doors close and we slide away, leaving the girl and her baby in the rain.

But she stays with me all day.

I ride the train into the Loop, to the Adams/Wabash Station, and inch my way out, down the steps and onto the waterlogged street below, into the acrid sewage smell that hovers at the corners of the city streets, where the pigeons amble along in staggering circles, beside garbage bins and homeless men and millions of city dwellers rushing from point A to point B in the rain.

I spend whole chunks of time—between meetings on adult literacy and GED preparation and tutoring a man from Mumbai in ESL—imagining the girl and child wasting the better part of the day on the train's platform, watching the "L" come and go. I invent stories in my mind. The baby is colicky and only sleeps in flux. The vibration of approaching trains is the key to keeping the baby asleep. The woman's umbrella—I picture it, bright red with flamboyant golden daisies—was manhandled by a great gust of wind, turned inside out, as they tend to do on days like this. It broke. The umbrella, the baby, the suitcase: it was more than her two arms could carry. Of course she couldn't leave the baby behind. And the suitcase? What was inside that suitcase that was of more importance than an umbrella on a day like this? Maybe she stood there all day, waiting. Maybe she was waiting for an arrival rather than a departure. Or maybe she hopped on the red line seconds after the brown line disappeared from view.

When I come home that night, she's gone. I don't tell Chris about this because I know what he would say: who cares?

I help Zoe with her math homework at the kitchen table. Zoe says that she hates math. This comes as no surprise to me. These days Zoe hates most everything. She's twelve. I can't be certain, but I remember my "I hate everything" days coming much later than that: sixteen or seventeen. But these days everything comes sooner. I went to kindergarten to play, to learn my ABCs; Zoe went to kindergarten to learn to read, to become more technologically savvy than me. Boys and girls are entering puberty sooner, up to two years sooner in some cases, than my own generation. Ten-year-olds have cell phones; seven- and eight-year-old girls have breasts.

Chris eats dinner and then disappears to the office, as he always does, to pore over sleepy, coma-inducing spreadsheets until after Zoe and I have gone to bed.

The next day she's there again. The girl. And again it's raining. Only the second week of April, and already the meteorologists are predicting record rainfall for the month. The wettest April on record, they say. The day before, O'Hare reported 0.6 inches of rain for a single day. It's begun to creep into basements, collect in the pleats of low-lying city streets. Airport flights have been cancelled and delayed. I remind myself, April showers bring May flowers, tuck myself into a creamy waterproof parka and sink my feet into a pair of rubber boots for the trek to work.

She wears the same torn jeans, the same army-green jacket, the same lace-up boots. The vintage suitcase rests beside her feet. She shivers in the raw air, the baby writhing and upset.

She bounces the baby up and down, up and down, and I read her lips—shh. I hear women beside me, drinking their piping-hot coffee beneath oversize golf umbrellas: she shouldn't have that baby outside. On a day like today? they sneer. What's wrong with that girl? Where is the baby's hat?

The purple line express soars past; the brown line rolls in and stops and the do-nothings file their way in like the moving products of an assembly line.

I linger, again, wanting to do something, but not wanting to seem intrusive or offensive. There's a fine line between helpful and disrespectful, one which I don't want to cross. There could be a million reasons why she's standing with the suitcase, holding the baby in the rain, a million reasons other than the one nagging thought that dawdles at the back of my brain: she's homeless.

I work with people who are often poverty stricken, mostly immigrants. Literacy statistics in Chicago are bleak. About a third of adults have a low level of literacy, which means they can't fill out job applications. They can't read directions or know which stop along the "L" track is theirs. They can't help their children with their homework.

The faces of poverty are grim: elderly women curled into balls on benches in the city's parks, their life's worth pushed around in a shopping cart as they scavenge the garbage for food; men pressed against high-rise buildings on the coldest ofJanuary days, sound asleep, a cardboard sign leaned against their inert bodies: Please Help. Hungry. God Bless. The victims of poverty live in substandard housing, in dangerous neighborhoods; their food supply is inadequate at best; they often go hungry. They have little or no access to health care, to proper immunization; their children go to underfunded schools, develop behavioral problems, witness violence. They have a greater risk of engaging in sexual activity, among other things, at a young age and thus, the cycle repeats itself. Teenage girls give birth to infants with low birth weights, they have little access to health care, they cannot be properly immunized, the children get sick. They go hungry.

Poverty, in Chicago, is highest among blacks and Hispanics, but that doesn't negate the fact that a white girl can be poor.

All this scuttles through my mind in the split second I wonder what to do. Help the girl. Get on the train. Help the girl. Get on the train. Help the girl.

But then, to my surprise, the girl boards the train. She slips through the doors seconds before the automated announcement—bing, bong, doors closing—and I follow along, wondering where it is that we're going, the girl, her baby and me.

The car is crowded. A man rises from his seat, which he graciously offers to the girl; without a word, she accepts, scooting into the metal pew beside a wheeler-dealer in a long black coat, a man who looks at the baby as if it might just be from Mars. Passengers lose themselves in the morning commute—they're on their cell phones, on their laptops and other technological gadgets, they're reading novels, the newspaper, the morning's briefing; they sip their coffee and stare out the window at the city skyline, lost in the gloomy day. The girl carefully removes the baby from her kangaroo pouch. She unfolds the pink fleece blanket, and miraculously, beneath that blanket, the baby appears dry. The train lurches toward the Armitage Station, soaring behind brick buildings and three and four flats, so close to people's homes I imagine the way they shake as the "L" passes by, glasses rattling in cabinets, TVs silenced by the reverberation of the train, every few minutes of the livelong day and long into the night. We leave Lincoln Park, and head into Old Town, and somewhere along the way the baby settles down, her wailing reduced to a quiet whimper to the obvious relief of those on the train.

I'm forced to stand farther away from the girl than I'd like to be. Bracing myself for the unpredictability of the train's movements, I peer past bodies and briefcases for the occasional glimpse—flawless ivory skin, patchy red from crying—the mother's hollow cheeks—a white Onesies jumpsuit—the desperate, hungry suction on a pacifier—vacant eyes. A woman walks by and says, "Cute baby." The girl forces a smile.

Smiling does not come naturally to the girl. I imagine her beside Zoe and know that she is older: the hopelessness in her eyes, for one, the lack of Zoe's raw vulnerability, another. And of course, there is the baby (I have myself convinced that Zoe still believes babies are delivered by storks), though beside the businessman the girl is diminutive, like a child. Her hair is disproportional: cut blunt on one side, shoulder length the other. It's drab, like an old sepia photograph, yellowing with time. There are streaks of red, not her natural hue. She wears dark, heavy eye makeup, smeared from the rain, hidden behind a screen of long, protective bangs.

The train slows its way into the Loop, careening around twists and turns. I watch as the baby is swaddled once again in the pink fleece and stuffed into the nylon coat and prepare myself for their departure. She gets off before I do, at State/ Van Buren, and I watch through the window, trying not to lose her in the heavy congestion that fills the city streets at this time of day.

But I do anyway, and just like that, she's gone.

CHRIS

"How was your day?" Heidi asks when I walk in the front door. I'm greeted by the funky scent of cumin, the sound of cable news from the living room TV, Zoe's stereo blasting down the hall. On the news: record rainfall clobbering the Midwest. An accumulated collection of wet things resides by the front door: coats and umbrellas and shoes. I add to the collection and shake my head dry, like a wet dog. Moving into the kitchen I plant a kiss on Heidi's cheek, more a force of habit than something sweet.

Heidi has changed into her pajamas already: red, flannel and plaid, her hair with its natural auburn waves deflated from the rain. Contacts out, glasses on. "Zoe!" she yells. "Dinner's ready," though down the hall, between the closed door of our daughter's bedroom and the deafening sound of boy band music, there's no chance she heard.

"What's for dinner?" I ask.

"Chili. Zoe!"

I love chili, but these days Heidi's chili is a vegetarian chili, loaded with not only black beans and kidney beans and garbanzo beans (and, apparently, cumin), but also what she calls vegetarian meat crumbles, to give the impression of meat without the cow. She snatches bowls from the cabinet, and begins ladling the chili. Heidi is not a vegetarian. But since Zoe began ranting about the fat in meat two weeks ago, Heidi made the family decision to go meat-free for a while. In that time we've had vegetarian meat loaf and spaghetti with vegetarian meatballs and vegetarian sloppy joes. But no meat.

"I'll get her," I say and head down the narrow hall of our condo. I knock on the pulsating door and, with Zoe's blessing, poke my head inside to tell her about dinner and she says okay. She's lying on her canopy bed, a yellow notebook—the one with all the teenybopper celebs she's torn from magazines taped to the front—on her lap. She slams it shut the minute I enter, gropes for social studies flash cards, which lie beside her, ignored.

I don't mention the crumbles. I trip over the cat on the way to Heidi's and my bedroom, loosening my tie as I do.

Moments later, we sit at the kitchen table, and again Heidi asks me about my day.

"Good," I say. "You?"

"I hate beans," Zoe declares as she scoops up a spoonful of chili, and then lets it dribble back into the bowl. The living room TV is muted, yet our eyes drift toward it, trying our best to lip-read our way through the evening news. Zoe slumps in her chair, refusing to eat, a cloned version of Heidi, from the roundness of their faces to the wavy hair and brown eyes, everything alike down to their cupid's-bow lips and a handful of freckles splattered across their snub noses.

"What did you do?" Heidi asks and internally I grimace, not wanting to relive the day, and her stories—Sudanese refugees seeking asylum and illiterate grown men—are depressing. I just want to lip-read my way through the evening news in silence.

But I tell her anyway about a customer due-diligence call and drafting a purchase agreement and a ridiculously early conference call with a client in Hong Kong. At 3:00 a.m. I sneaked from the bedroom that Heidi and I share and crept into the office for the call, and when it was finished, I showered and left for work, long before Heidi or Zoe began to stir.

"I'm leaving in the morning for San Francisco," I remind her.

She nods her head. "I know. How long?"

"One night."

And then I ask about her day and Heidi tells me about a young man who emigrated from India to the United States six months ago. He was living in the slums of Mumbai—Dharavi, to be exact; one of the largest slums in the world, as Heidi tells me, where he was earning less than two American dollars a day in his home country. She tells me about their toilets, how they're few and far between. The residents use the river instead. She's helping this man, she calls him Aakar, with his grammar. Which isn't easy. She reminds me: "English is a very difficult language to learn."

I say that I know.

My wife is a bleeding heart. Which was absolutely adorable when I asked her to marry me, but somehow, after fourteen years of marriage, the words immigrant and refugee hit a nerve for me, generally because I'm sure she's more concerned with their well-being than my own.

"And your day, Zoe?" Heidi asks.

"It sucked," Zoe grumbles, slumped in the chair, staring at that chili as though it might just be dog shit, and I laugh to myself. At least one of us is being honest. I want a do-over. My day sucked, too.

"Sucked how?" Heidi asks. I love when Heidi uses the word sucked. Its unnaturalness is comical; the only time Heidi talks about things sucking it's in reference to a lollipop or straw. And then, "What's wrong with your chili? Too hot?"

"I told you. I hate beans."

Meet the Author

Mary Kubica is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of THE GOOD GIRL and PRETTY BABY. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, in History and American Literature. She lives outside of Chicago with her husband and two children and enjoys photography, gardening and caring for the animals at a local shelter.

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Pretty Baby 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 74 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I really enjoyed this book, it was a very quick read and kept me engaged the whole time. The only complaint I have is that it wrapped up a little too quickly and didn't give enough conclusion. I was expecting more of twist in the story, but it never came. Still a good, well paced and developed story. I'd recommend it.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Love it and its way better than good girl
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Really good book
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This was interesting but I also found myself skimming through many of the pages. I also was disappointed at the ending. I wanted more information about some of the characters. All and all, not a bad book.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Five stars. Even better than The Good Girl.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Excellent! It's been awhile since a novel grabbed me from beginning to end and this book exceeded my expectations! Engrossing character studies, each perspective complex and engaging. Appropriately categorized a psychological thriller, "Pretty Baby" emotionally twists and turns, so much so, that I didn't want the book to end! In fact, I did the next best thing, and started reading Kubica's "The Good Girl".
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Interesting plot. Fine development of 2 main characters -- Willow & Heidi. The husband Chris turns out to be more interesting than I initially thought he would be. Sad sad events but good ending. Wanted to know more about preteen daughter Zoe and her negativity, which was hinted at but not fully explained. Zoe could be the center of a book of her own if the author wanted to weave a story around someone like her and give her solid motivations.
kochc09 More than 1 year ago
Overall, I really enjoyed reading this book. I feel that the choice to tell the story from three different perspectives was definitely a good one, if not a necessity. This entire story takes place in just several days, but the background stories from each character are what really ties all of the loose ends together and solidifies this story. The first three quarters of the book are slow moving. Not in a bad way at all, but this is where the story is laid out to be built upon. I never felt bored or uninterested at any point. The last quarter of the book was just non-stop action. I definitely recommend setting aside time that you can finish the end in one sitting because you will not want to put the book down. I do wish that a little more information was given at the end of the book of where some of the characters ended up, but all in all this is a great read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Held my attention from start to finish. Read the Good Girl and now looking forward to next book. Her writing flows very easy and interesting descriptive.
lipplounge More than 1 year ago
Disappointing After reading the author's first book, THE GOOD GIRL, I was excited to read PRETTY BABY. However, I was quickly disappointed. The storyline did little to hold my interest and a plot did not develop until approximately 1/3 into the book where she introduces "Willow." I feel this chapter would have served better as a prologue; the ending left me wondering what on earth was happening - for the first time my interest was grabbed and my curiosity piqued! Her development of "Heidi" was slow but involved with a good insight into an individual's psychological imbalance. I thought the book moved slowly and was not captured by much of the story along the way. Truly a disappointment to me after being enthralled by the author's first book.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Sad and unbelievable. Characters were awful people .
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Good book
Anonymous 30 days ago
I miss you too
CCinME 4 months ago
Not bad but not great. It moved along nicely until about 2/3 through where it seemed to stall. While the ending tied up nicely for one character, it left us hanging for the other main character. I will read this author again and hope for better results.
Anonymous 9 months ago
I couldn't put it down
Anonymous 11 months ago
pufferstristen More than 1 year ago
I am a new reader of Mary Kubica. The first book of hers, that I read, was Don't You Cry and I really enjoyed that book. So, then I read Good Girl, which I LOVED. So, I was very excited to try this book out. The book 'hooked' me, from the moment I started reading it. And, by page 50, I couldn't put it down. It would have gotten a five star rating, if she would have explained what happened to The Wood family. We never hear about how that story line ended. But, even despite this, it is very well written and there are many plot twists, that keep you wondering what is going to happen, next.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Awesome book , couldn't stop reading it. Had to read this every chance I got . So many sad parts,couldn't wait to see what happens in the end . Enjoy
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
He is a prity babe !
feather_lashes More than 1 year ago
Pretty Baby is a standalone, psychological thriller written by Mary Kubica. This story is told through three perspectives: Heidi, her husband Chris, and Heidi's newest charity case Willow. I loved Heidi's character when I began this book. She has the biggest heart and just wants to help everyone (despite her family's eye-rolls). Willow on the other hand appears deeply troubled, homeless, and eerily mysterious - worst of all, she is clearly unable to appropriately care for her baby. Obviously, Willow is in desperate need of Heidi's help. Oh boy... That's the thing about psychological thrillers. They mess with your head...they make you think one thing and then flip what you thought you knew upside down. I won't spoil anything, but if you have a reading experience similar to mine, you'll have a pretty good idea where this story is heading as it slowly progresses. The "big moment" (at least what I perceived as the big moment) still made my jaw drop so for that I am grateful to Ms. Kubica. Themes of child abuse, a failing dependency system, mental/behavioral health, and marriage and family stressors were front and center and the emotions they solicited were fairly palpable. The characters are well-developed and complex as all get-out. In terms of characters versus plot, the strength of this book lies in the characters for sure. In my opinion, this storyline flowed much too slowly for my personal taste to the point I was beginning to lose patience. After a heavy amount of “hurry up and get there”, suddenly it was there and then it ended. Maybe this style was chosen to elevate the suspense factor but it didn't quite work for me. I paused the book often and didn't feel much urgency to pick it up when timing permitted. Based on ratings I'm seeing, I seem to be in the minority but felt it was worth mentioning in an effort to provide an honest review. Regardless, I liked Pretty Baby overall and would recommend it to fans of Mary Kubica or character-driven psychological thrillers in general. Ever since reading The Good Girl, I've been keeping an eye out for Ms. Kubica's next release and I will continue to do so. Check her out! My favorite quote: "I imagined those kids out that window, the kids with the bikes and the chalk, and their own mommas and daddies telling them never to play with Isaac and Matthew 'cause they were weird. Not to talk to Joseph because he was an odd duck, and then later, when all was said and done, it would be those mommas and daddies who told police that they felt something wasn't quite right. Something they couldn't put their finger on. But they didn't do a thing about it."
Snowreader More than 1 year ago
Good story line. It keeps you interested, and leaves you wanting more. At times it was very sad but true to real life.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago