This one is not all it’s cracked up to be, but still readable. Alcoholic agrophobic psychologist Anna Fox hasn’t been outside in many months and spends a unhealthy amount of time spying on her various neighbours, who seem to share an inexplicable disdain for curtains. When she thinks she sees a woman being murdered across the way, she reports it but doubt is cast on her version of events (possibly because she slugs wine and prescription medication with alarming abandon and hangs out mostly in a stained dressing gown). She is, potentially, an unrealiable narrator, but she has a wry self-awareness and intelligence that invites empathy. The retelling of the accident involving her husband and daughter is beautifully written, but then there’s a disappointingly obvious twist connected to their absence in her life. The ending is a good one, sure, but it goes on a little too long. 3.5 stars
