A book that convinced me I am not a psychopath

H. J. Garbett’s debut novel hits shelves June 17, 2025, and let me tell you—she didn’t come here to play, she came here to unravel you with sentences.

Plot-wise, this isn’t groundbreaking. A detective unknowingly engaged to a murderer? That setup is familiar. We’ve seen it—on TV, in paperbacks, probably in a few suspicious marriages. But the magic here isn’t in what happens. It’s in how it’s written.

Garbett’s strength is voice. The killer’s internal monologue is raw, strange, darkly funny, and completely consuming. She jokes with herself. She masks terror with small talk. She spirals inward while keeping a perfectly normal face for her fiancé. It's unsettling—but that’s the point.

You’re not meant to root for her. You’re meant to watch her unravel in real time.

This book doesn’t rely on big plot twists. It relies on psychological tension, sharp emotion, and the unbearable closeness of two people lying to each other and themselves.

It’s bold, immersive, and, honestly, kind of exhausting—in a good way.

Like falling down a staircase made of sharp thoughts

I love unserious way of narrating. It’s not neat, it’s not clear, and it doesn’t beg to be taken seriously—until you realize it absolutely should be. It’s the true color of how we process information, relationships, and decision-making in real time. Whether you're a rational adult or a woman hiding a body in the garden.

Speaking of psychopaths…

Fran, our murderous narrator, spends the entire book trying to convince you—and herself—that she’s not one. But let’s be honest: if she were really a psychopath, she wouldn’t care what you thought.

She knows what she’s doing is wrong. She recognizes the morality of it, she just… does it anyway. She’s been in a long-term, committed relationship with her detective fiancé for seven years. She loves him. She's terrified of losing him. She spirals, hesitates, plans, regrets. That’s not emotional detachment. That’s not apathy. That’s a sociopath. Not a psychopath.

She’s not emotionally empty—she’s emotionally drowning in a glittering cocktail of rage, fear, attachment issues, and baby fever.

You’re not watching a killer on autopilot. You’re watching a woman plan revenge, smile at brunch, and track ovulation—all in the same breath. That’s not murder mystery. That’s full psychological theatre.

This sculpture perfectly Summarize my emotions for this book:

Disturbing but somehow fascinating.

The one thing that did pull me out of the story?

Her vocabulary.

There were moments where it felt like she swallowed a thesaurus and coughed up synonyms for “rage” that no emotionally collapsing human would actually use mid-breakdown.

I’m not anti-big words. I read Shakespeare. I’ve inhaled Stephen King. I’ve been reading in English longer than I’ve held down most relationships. But when you’re inside the mind of a killer having a panic attack, and she suddenly uses a word like "circumlocution" or "pellucid," it feels like we’ve briefly exited the story to audition for a literary prize.

It’s the kind of language that doesn’t serve the character—it serves the writer.

It screams: “Look! I know English!”

And listen, so do I. But I still had to re-read some sentences like I was decoding an SAT essay while someone bled out in the background.

Would I say this is the best book I’ve ever read?

No.

Would I say it hooked me with sarcasm and raw emotional instability that felt eerily similar to what I’m experiencing in university—minus the actual murder?

Yes. Violently yes.

This book wasn’t perfect. It made me reach for the dictionary more times than I reached for water. But it did crawl inside my brain, slap me across the face with character tension, and remind me what it feels like to lose control in a beautiful, terrifying way.

I’m rooting for Garbett.

She’s got the voice. She’s got the guts.

Hopefully her next book involves fewer obscure synonyms and more raw chaotic energy that hits dangerously close to a real human being.