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Dark Places Paperback – May 4, 2010
| Gillian Flynn (Author) Find all the books, read about the author, and more. See search results for this author |
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Libby Day was seven when her mother and two sisters were murdered in “The Satan Sacrifice of Kinnakee, Kansas.” She survived—and famously testified that her fifteen-year-old brother, Ben, was the killer. Twenty-five years later, the Kill Club—a secret society obsessed with notorious crimes—locates Libby and pumps her for details. They hope to discover proof that may free Ben.
Libby hopes to turn a profit off her tragic history: She’ll reconnect with the players from that night and report her findings to the club—for a fee. As Libby’s search takes her from shabby Missouri strip clubs to abandoned Oklahoma tourist towns, the unimaginable truth emerges, and Libby finds herself right back where she started—on the run from a killer.
Praise for Dark Places
“[A] nerve-fraying thriller.”—The New York Times
“Flynn’s well-paced story deftly shows the fallibility of memory and the lies a child tells herself to get through a trauma.”—The New Yorker
“Gillian Flynn coolly demolished the notion that little girls are made of sugar and spice in Sharp Objects, her sensuous and chilling first thriller. In Dark Places, her equally sensuous and chilling follow-up, Flynn . . . has conjured up a whole new crew of feral and troubled young females. . . . [A] propulsive and twisty mystery.”—Entertainment Weekly
“Flynn follows her deliciously creepy Sharp Objects with another dark tale . . . The story, alternating between the 1985 murders and the present, has a tense momentum that works beautifully. And when the truth emerges, it’s so macabre not even twisted little Libby Day could see it coming.”—People (4 stars)
“Crackles with peevish energy and corrosive wit.” —Dallas Morning News
“A riveting tale of true horror by a writer who has all the gifts to pull it off.”—Chicago Tribune
"It's Flynn's gift that she can make a caustic, self-loathing, unpleasant protagonist someone you come to root for.”—New York Magazine
“[A] gripping thriller.”—Cosmopolitan
"Gillian Flynn is the real deal, a sharp, acerbic, and compelling storyteller with a knack for the macabre.”—Stephen King
- Print length349 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherCrown
- Publication dateMay 4, 2010
- Dimensions5.2 x 0.78 x 7.96 inches
- ISBN-100307341577
- ISBN-13978-0307341570
- Lexile measure940L
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Editorial Reviews
Review
A Weekend TODAY “Top Summer Read”
The New Yorker's Reviewers' Favorite from 2009
A 2009 Favorite Fiction Pick by The Chicago Tribune
“Another winner!”—Harlan Coben
“Gillian Flynn’s writing is compulsively good. I would rather read her than just about any other crime writer.”—Kate Atkinson
“Dark Places grips you from the first page and doesn't let go.”—Karin Slaughter
“With her blistering debut Sharp Objects, Gillian Flynn hit the ground running. Dark Places demonstrates that was no fluke.”—Val McDermid
“Dark Places' Libby Day may seem unpleasant company at first–she's humoring those with morbid curiosities about her family's murders in order to get money out of them–but her steely nature and sharp tongue are compelling. 'I have a meanness inside me,'she says, 'real as an organ.'Yes she does, and by the end of this pitch-black novel, after we've loosened our grip on its cover and started breathing deeply again, we're glad Flynn decided to share it.”—Jessa Crispin, NPR
“Flynn returns to the front ranks of emerging thriller writers with her aptly titled new novel . . . Those who prefer their literary bones with a little bloody meat will be riveted.”—Portland Oregonian
“Gillian Flynn may turn out to be a more gothic John Irving for the 21st century, a writer who uses both a surgeon's scalpel and a set of rusty harrow discs to rip the pretty face off middle America.”—San Jose Mercury News
“The world of this novel is all underside, all hard flinch, and Flynn’s razor-sharp prose intensifies this effect as she knuckles in on every sentence. . . . The slick plotting in Dark Places will gratify the lover of a good thriller–but so, too, will Flynn’s prose, which is ferocious and unrelenting and pure pleasure from word one.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Gillian Flynn’s second novel, Dark Places, proves that her first – Sharp Objects – was no fluke. . . . tough, surprising crime fiction that dips its toes in the deeper waters of literary fiction.”—Chicago Sun-Times
"Flynn fully inhabits Libby—a damaged woman whose world has resided entirely in her own head for the majority of her life and who is prone to dark metaphors: 'Draw a picture of my soul, and it’d be a scribble with fangs.' Half the fun of DARK PLACES is Libby’s swampy psychology, which Flynn leads us through without the benefit of hip waders.”—Time Out Chicago
“Deliciously creepy...Flynn follows 250-some pages of masterful plotting and character development with a speedway pileup of pulse-pounding revelations.” —Chicago Reader
“A genuinely shocking denouement.” —Romantic Times
“Sardonic, riveting . . . Like Kate Atkinson, Flynn has figured out how to fuse the believable characters, silken prose and complex moral vision of literary fiction to the structure of a crime story. . . . You can sense trouble coming like a storm moving over the prairie, but can't quite detect its shape.” —Laura Miller, Salon
“These characters are fully realized—so true they could step off the page….hints of what truly happened to the Day family feel painfully, teasingly paced as they forge an irresistible trail to the truth….Could. Not. Stop. Reading.”—Bookreporter
“Libby’s voice is a pitch-perfect blend of surliness and emotionally charged imagery. . . . The Kansas in these pages is a bleak, deterministic place where bad blood and lies generate horrifically unintended consequences. Though there’s little redemption here, Flynn manages to unearth the humanity buried beneath the squalor.”—Bloomberg
“Set in the bleak Midwest of America, this evocation of small-town life and dysfunctional people is every bit as horribly fascinating as Capote’s journalistic retelling of a real family massacre, In Cold Blood, which it eerily resembles. This is only Flynn’ s second crime novel–her debut was the award-winning Sharp Objects–and demonstrates even more forcibly her precocious writing ability and talent for the macabre.”—Daily Mail (UK)
“Flynn’s second novel is a wonderful evocation of drab small-town life. The time-split narrative works superbly and the atmosphere is eerily macabre—Dark Places is even better than the author’s award-winning Sharp Objects.”—The Guardian (UK)
“A gritty, riveting thriller with a one-of-a-kind, tart-tongued heroine.” —Booklist (starred review)
“Flynn’s second crime thriller tops her impressive debut, Sharp Objects…When the truth emerges, it’s so twisted that even the most astute readers won’t have predicted it.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Now
I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you could stomp on it. It’s the Day blood. Something’s wrong with it. I was never a good little girl, and I got worse after the murders. Little Orphan Libby grew up sullen and boneless, shuffled around a group of lesser relatives—second cousins and great-aunts and friends of friends—stuck in a series of mobile homes or rotting ranch houses all across Kansas. Me going to school in my dead sisters’ hand-me-downs: Shirts with mustardy armpits. Pants with baggy bottoms, comically loose, held on with a raggedy belt cinched to the farthest hole. In class photos my hair was always crooked—barrettes hanging loosely from strands, as if they were airborne objects caught in the tangles—and I always had bulging pockets under my eyes, drunk-landlady eyes. Maybe a grudging curve of the lips where a smile should be. Maybe.
I was not a lovable child, and I’d grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it’d be a scribble with fangs.
It was miserable, wet-bone March and I was lying in bed thinking about killing myself, a hobby of mine. Indulgent afternoon daydreaming: A shotgun, my mouth, a bang and my head jerking once, twice, blood on the wall. Spatter, splatter. “Did she want to be buried or cremated?” people would ask. “Who should come to the funeral?” And no one would know. The people, whoever they were, would just look at each other’s shoes or shoulders until the silence settled in and then someone would put on a pot of coffee, briskly and with a fair amount of clatter. Coffee goes great with sudden death.
I pushed a foot out from under my sheets, but couldn’t bring myself to connect it to the floor. I am, I guess, depressed. I guess I’ve been depressed for about twenty-four years. I can feel a better version of me somewhere in there—hidden behind a liver or attached to a bit of spleen within my stunted, childish body—a Libby that’s telling me to get up, do something, grow up, move on. But the meanness usually wins out. My brother slaughtered my family when I was seven. My mom, two sisters, gone: bang bang, chop chop, choke choke. I didn’t really have to do anything after that, nothing was expected.
I inherited $321,374 when I turned eighteen, the result of all those well-wishers who’d read about my sad story, do-gooders whose hearts had gone out to me. Whenever I hear that phrase, and I hear it a lot, I picture juicy doodle-hearts, complete with bird-wings, flapping toward one of my many crap-ass childhood homes, my little-girl self at the window, waving and grabbing each bright heart, green cash sprinkling down on me, thanks, thanks a ton! When I was still a kid, the donations were placed in a conservatively managed bank account, which, back in the day, saw a jump about every three–four years, when some magazine or news station ran an update on me. Little Libby’s Brand New Day: The Lone Survivor of the Prairie Massacre Turns a Bittersweet 10. (Me in scruffy pigtails on the possum-pissed lawn outside my Aunt Diane’s trailer. Diane’s thick tree-calves, exposed by a rare skirt, planted on the trailer steps behind me.) Brave Baby Day’s Sweet 16! (Me, still miniature, my face aglow with birthday candles, my shirt too tight over breasts that had gone D-cup that year, comic-book sized on my tiny frame, ridiculous, porny.)
I’d lived off that cash for more than thirteen years, but it was almost gone. I had a meeting that afternoon to determine exactly how gone. Once a year the man who managed the money, an unblinking, pink-cheeked banker named Jim Jeffreys, insisted on taking me to lunch, a “checkup,” he called it. We’d eat something in the twenty-dollar range and talk about my life—he’d known me since I was this-high, after all, heheh. As for me, I knew almost nothing about Jim Jeffreys, and never asked, viewing the appointments always from the same kid’s-eye view: Be polite, but barely, and get it over with. Single-word answers, tired sighs. (The one thing I suspected about Jim Jeffreys was that he must be Christian, churchy—he had the patience and optimism of someone who thought Jesus was watching.) I wasn’t due for a “checkup” for another eight or nine months, but Jim Jeffreys had nagged, leaving phone messages in a serious, hushed voice, saying he’d done all he could to extend the “life of the fund,” but it was time to think about “next steps.”
And here again came the meanness: I immediately thought about that other little tabloid girl, Jamie Something, who’d lost her family the same year—1985. She’d had part of her face burned off in a fire her dad set that killed everyone else in her family. Any time I hit the ATM, I think of that Jamie girl, and how if she hadn’t stolen my thunder, I’d have twice as much money. That Jamie Whatever was out at some mall with my cash, buying fancy handbags and jewelry and buttery department-store makeup to smooth onto her shiny, scarred face. Which was a horrible thing to think, of course. I at least knew that.
Finally, finally, finally I pulled myself out of bed with a stage- effect groan and wandered to the front of my house. I rent a small brick bungalow within a loop of other small brick bungalows, all of which squat on a massive bluff overlooking the former stockyards of Kansas City. Kansas City, Missouri, not Kansas City, Kansas. There’s a difference.
My neighborhood doesn’t even have a name, it’s so forgotten. It’s called Over There That Way. A weird, subprime area, full of dead ends and dog crap. The other bungalows are packed with old people who’ve lived in them since they were built. The old people sit, gray and pudding-like, behind screen windows, peering out at all hours. Sometimes they walk to their cars on careful elderly tiptoes that make me feel guilty, like I should go help. But they wouldn’t like that. They are not friendly old people—they are tight-lipped, pissed-off old people who do not appreciate me being their neighbor, this new person. The whole area hums with their disapproval. So there’s the noise of their disdain and there’s the skinny red dog two doors down who barks all day and howls all night, the constant background noise you don’t realize is driving you crazy until it stops, just a few blessed moments, and then starts up again. The neighborhood’s only cheerful sound I usually sleep through: the morning coos of toddlers. A troop of them, round-faced and multilayered, walk to some daycare hidden even farther in the rat’s nest of streets behind me, each clutching a section of a long piece of rope trailed by a grown-up. They march, penguin-style, past my house every morning, but I have not once seen them return. For all I know, they troddle around the entire world and return in time to pass my window again in the morning. Whatever the story, I am attached to them. There are three girls and a boy, all with a fondness for bright red jackets—and when I don’t seen them, when I oversleep, I actually feel blue. Bluer. That’d be the word my mom would use, not something as dramatic as depressed. I’ve had the blues for twenty-four years.
I put on a skirt and blouse for the meeting, feeling dwarfy, my grown-up, big-girl clothes never quite fitting. I’m barely five foot—four foot, ten inches in truth, but I round up. Sue me. I’m thirty-one, but people tend to talk to me in singsong, like they want to give me fingerpaints.
I headed down my weedy front slope, the neighbor’s red dog launching into its busybody barking. On the pavement near my car are the smashed skeletons of two baby birds, their flattened beaks and wings making them look reptilian. They’ve been there for a year. I can’t resist looking at them each time I get in my car. We need a good flood, wash them away.
Two elderly women were talking on the front steps of a house across the street, and I could feel them refusing to see me. I don’t know anyone’s name. If one of those women died, I couldn’t even say, “Poor old Mrs. Zalinsky died.” I’d have to say, “That mean old bitch across the street bit it.”
Feeling like a child ghost, I climbed into my anonymous midsized car, which seems to be made mostly of plastic. I keep waiting for someone from the dealership to show up and tell me the obvious: “It’s a joke. You can’t actually drive this. We were kidding.” I trance-drove my toy car ten minutes downtown to meet Jim Jeffreys, rolling into the steakhouse parking lot twenty minutes late, knowing he’d smile all kindly and say nothing about my tardiness.
I was supposed to call him from my cell phone when I arrived so he could trot out and escort me in. The restaurant—a great, old-school KC steakhouse—is surrounded by hollowed-out buildings that concern him, as if a troop of rapists were permanently crouched in their empty husks awaiting my arrival. Jim Jeffreys is not going to be The Guy Who Let Something Bad Happen to Libby Day. Nothing bad can happen to BRAVE BABY DAY, LITTLE GIRL LOST, the pathetic, red-headed seven-year-old with big blue eyes, the only one who survived the PRAIRIE MASSACRE, the KANSAS CRAZE-KILLINGS, the FARMHOUSE SATAN SACRIFICE. My mom, two older sisters, all butchered by Ben. The only one left, I’d fingered him as the murderer. I was the cutie-pie who brought my Devil- worshiping brother to justice. I was big news. The Enquirer put my tearful photo on the front page with the headline ANGEL FACE.
I peered into the rearview mirror and could see my baby face even now. My freckles were faded, and my teeth straightened, but my nose was still pug and my eyes kitten-round. I dyed my hair now, a white-blonde, but the red roots had grown in. It looked like my scalp was bleeding, especially in the late-day sunlight. It looked gory. I lit a cigarette. I’d go for months without smoking, and then remember: I need a cigarette. I’m like that, nothing sticks.
“Let’s go, Baby Day,” I said aloud. It’s what I call myself when I’m feeling hateful.
I got out of the car and smoked my way toward the restaurant, holding the cigarette in my right hand so I didn’t have to look at the left hand, the mangled one. It was almost evening: Migrant clouds floated in packs across the sky like buffalo, and the sun was just low enough to spray everything pink. Toward the river, between the looping highway ramps, obsolete grain elevators sat vacant, dusk-black and pointless.
I walked across the parking lot all by myself, atop a constellation of crushed glass. I was not attacked. It was, after all, just past 5 p.m. Jim Jeffreys was an early-bird eater, proud of it.
He was sitting at the bar when I walked in, sipping a pop, and the first thing he did, as I knew he would, was grab his cell phone from his jacket pocket and stare at it as if it had betrayed him.
“Did you call?” he frowned.
“No, I forgot,” I lied.
He smiled then. “Well, anyway. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here, sweetheart. Ready to talk turkey?”
He slapped two bucks on the bartop, and maneuvered us over to a red leather booth sprouting yellow stuffing from its cracks. The broken slits scraped the backs of my legs as I slid in. A whoof of cigarette stink burped out of the cushions.
Jim Jeffreys never drank liquor in front of me, and never asked me if I wanted a drink, but when the waiter came I ordered a glass of red wine and watched him try not to look surprised, or disappointed, or anything but Jim Jeffreys–like. What kind of red? the waiter asked, and I had no idea, really—I never could remember the names of reds or whites, or which part of the name you were supposed to say out loud, so I just said, House. He ordered a steak, I ordered a double-stuffed baked potato, and then the waiter left and Jim Jeffreys let out a long dentist-y sigh and said, “Well, Libby, we are entering a very new and different stage here together.”
“So how much is left?” I asked, thinking saytenthousandsayten thousand.
“Do you read those reports I send you?”
“I sometimes do,” I lied again. I liked getting mail but not reading it; the reports were probably in a pile somewhere in my house.
“Have you listened to my messages?”
“I think your cell phone is messed up. It cuts out a lot.” I’d listened just long enough to know I was in trouble. I usually tuned out after Jim Jeffreys’ first sentence, which always began: Your friend Jim Jeffreys here, Libby . . .
Jim Jeffreys steepled his fingers and stuck his bottom lip out. “There is 982 dollars and 12 cents left in the fund. As I’ve mentioned before, had you been able to replenish it with any kind of regular work, we’d have been able to keep it afloat, but . . .” he tossed out his hands and grimaced, “things didn’t work out that way.”
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Product details
- Publisher : Crown; Reprint edition (May 4, 2010)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 349 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0307341577
- ISBN-13 : 978-0307341570
- Lexile measure : 940L
- Item Weight : 9.6 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.2 x 0.78 x 7.96 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #11,749 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #711 in Women Sleuths (Books)
- #1,206 in Murder Thrillers
- #1,399 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Gillian Flynn was the chief TV critic for ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY and now writes full-time. Her first novel SHARP OBJECTS was the winner of two CWA DAGGERS and was shortlisted for the GOLD DAGGER. Her latest novel, GONE GIRL, is a massive No.1 bestseller. The film adaptation of GONE GIRL, directed by David Fincher and starring Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike, won the Hollywood Film Award 2014.
Customer reviews
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Learn more how customers reviews work on AmazonReviewed in the United States on February 9, 2018
Top reviews from the United States
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One thing I would recommend to sensitive readers like myself--skip the entire chapter with the cows (about 3/4 way through the book). You'll already know what's going to happen by then and the details were too disturbing for me as an animal lover, and didn't really add anything to the story the reader didn't already know. I just flipped through to the next chapter and was able to enjoy the rest of the book.
When Libby runs out of money and becomes desperate to survive without actually earning the money through the means of a real job, she begins considering the offer put forth by a mysterious identity who is a part of a secret “Kill Club” that focuses on notorious crimes, and begins her journey to answers.
With doubts of the reality of the events that actually occurred on that freezing Kansas night, Libby is forced to open her eyes to the possibility that the brother she has despised over the past two and a half decades may not actually be the killer of her beloved mother and two sisters.
Between the flashbacks to how life was before the murders and Libby’s life now, it’s easy to begin wondering if everything that you personally remember from your childhood is actually fact or fiction. —- Throughout the novel I found myself questioning Bens innocence and trying to piece together what happened that night along with Libby. I at times found myself on the edge of my seat wondering what’s going to happen next and wondering who the killer truly was, or if it really was Ben all along. In a similar twisted fashion as Flynn’s book Sharp Objects, I anticipated a crazy twist. Whilst this book lacked in the “super sick” twist department, it still had a lot of unpredictability to offer its readers.
I would definitely recommend this novel to anyone looking for a fast paced psychological thriller.
By ItsAMeKristigi on February 9, 2018
When Libby runs out of money and becomes desperate to survive without actually earning the money through the means of a real job, she begins considering the offer put forth by a mysterious identity who is a part of a secret “Kill Club” that focuses on notorious crimes, and begins her journey to answers.
With doubts of the reality of the events that actually occurred on that freezing Kansas night, Libby is forced to open her eyes to the possibility that the brother she has despised over the past two and a half decades may not actually be the killer of her beloved mother and two sisters.
Between the flashbacks to how life was before the murders and Libby’s life now, it’s easy to begin wondering if everything that you personally remember from your childhood is actually fact or fiction. —- Throughout the novel I found myself questioning Bens innocence and trying to piece together what happened that night along with Libby. I at times found myself on the edge of my seat wondering what’s going to happen next and wondering who the killer truly was, or if it really was Ben all along. In a similar twisted fashion as Flynn’s book Sharp Objects, I anticipated a crazy twist. Whilst this book lacked in the “super sick” twist department, it still had a lot of unpredictability to offer its readers.
I would definitely recommend this novel to anyone looking for a fast paced psychological thriller.
Top reviews from other countries
I have also seen but not read Sharp Objects.
This is the third and last Gillian Flynn's, which I've only read.
Still, I'm not sure whether I'm a fan of hers.
There's a certain amount of sensational noise around her books I'm not sure I approve of, a reputation for shocking that smacks of wanting to grab attention...
She's supposed to be so "dark" and so unflinching in her depiction of women.
Sure enough, she doesn't write "pretty" stories or "likeable" characters.
I'm not really bothered by the fact that she writes about "bad" women. Why not? Women don't have the monopoly on goodness. They're like men, flawed and, as stories in the press attest everyday, just as capable of all sorts of nasty things.
People make a big deal of the nastiness in GF's books subject matter. I suppose what shocks perhaps it's that it's a woman creating and writing these things. But again why not, women have an imagination too.
All this is not what I find interesting in her books and in particular this one.
It's the characterisation, not the story per say. All the characters in this book are so well observed and believable, in all their good and bad points, their flaws, their defects, their vulnerability, their helplessness, their humanity and inhumanity, their ugliness.
She writes very well. She can spin a yarn, craft a thrilling mystery and mostly sustain interest making you want to read more and find out what happens, although by the end I'd figured out most it and didn't find the story particularly remarkable or believable.
It's also her ability to paint a picture in a social context that's compelling.
Here the desperation of economically depressed and deprived mid rural white America. The sense of hopelessness, no way out, no present, no future type situation. It's not fluffy reading and more than the gore, it's what gets to you and feels real.
I can't say I really "enjoy" her stories but I don't think that's the point. They make you reflect. Through the characters and the plot, she develops some serious themes, some psychologic and social insights worth looking at.
It's just perhaps a bit too close to real life for comfort at times and forces us to dwell on things we'd rather dismiss from our minds.
The tone was bleak from the outset, the descriptions of murder, blood and gore explicit and chilling.
The premise is good, but the story gets bogged down in side-stories about Ben's descent into 'bad' and flipping between present and future. Libby is only a half-likable character and the Kill Club premise is flimsy, that people would pay her to investigate the crime.
The actual twist/ending was also a bit limp, and again not really believable. Hard to elaborate without spoilers, but it was disappointing having slogged through this miserable story.
I liked Gone Girl and was going to purchase Sharp Objects but I'm less keen now.
It takes a lot for me to dislike a book so much that it doesn't go on my shelf to be re-read at a later point.
I much preferred Sharp Objects and Gone Girl but this was another solid read from my favourite thriller writer. I love the way her characters are real, warts and all.
It's recommend this to anyone who like a really taught,fast paced thriller by a superb writer. I highly recommend it,and Flynn's other books too.
Real flawed help develop a character past their role in the plot and into real actual humans. But in Dark Places I felt that every single character was so deeply flawed and inherently unlikable that it causes a bit of a barrier for me and I struggled a little to make it last the middle.
I am very glad I kept reading, as one thing I love about Flynn's writing is her endings!
No spoilers, but a twisted and surprising while also satisfyingly understandable ending is another thing I've come to expect and enjoy. The ending was perfect.
I also enjoyed the quick references to real-life events that helped to root the story in the time period (which I'm too young to have any familiarity or nostalgia for). This helped suck me into Libby's horrible world.
I've chosen 3 stars, though I'd rather give 3.5 because I really did enjoy the story even if I did want someone to root for!











