Final Girls: A Novel

By Riley Sager

THE NATIONAL AND INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER

“If you liked Gone Girl, you’ll like this.”—Stephen King
 
Ten years ago, six friends went on vacation. One made it out alive….
 
In that instant, college student Quincy Carpenter became a member of a very exclusive club—a group of survivors the press dubbed “The Final Girls”: Lisa, who lost nine sorority sisters to a college dropout's knife; Sam, who endured the Sack Man during her shift at the Nightlight Inn; and now Quincy, who ran bleeding through the woods to escape the massacre at Pine Cottage. Despite the media's attempts, the three girls have never met.
 
Now, Quincy is doing well—maybe even great, thanks to her Xanax prescription. She has a caring almost-fiancé; a popular baking blog; a beautiful apartment; and a therapeutic presence in Coop, the police officer who saved her life. Her mind won’t let her recall the events of that night; the past is in the past…until the first Final Girl is found dead in her bathtub and the second Final Girl appears on Quincy's doorstep.
 
Blowing through Quincy's life like a hurricane, Sam seems intent on making her relive the trauma of her ordeal. When disturbing details about Lisa's death emerge, Quincy desperately tries to unravel Sam's truths from her lies while evading both the police and bloodthirsty reporters. Quincy knows that in order to survive she has to remember what really happened at Pine Cottage.
 
Because the only thing worse than being a Final Girl is being a dead one.
 
WINNER OF THE 2018 INTERNATIONAL THRILLER WRITERS AWARD FOR BEST HARDCOVER NOVEL

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
• Release date: Jul 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781101985373

Riley Sager

Riley Sager is the New York Times bestselling author of seven novels, most recently Survive the Night and The House Across the Lake. A native of Pennsylvania, he now lives in Princeton, New Jersey.

Book preview

Cover for Final Girls: A Novel, Author, Riley Sager

Praise for Final Girls

"The first great thriller of 2017 is here: Final Girls, by Riley Sager. If you liked Gone Girl, you’ll like this."

—Stephen King

"Sager cleverly plays on horror movie themes from Scream to Single White Female, creating an homage without camp. Despite comparisons to Gone Girl, this debut’s strong character development and themes of rebirth and redemption align more closely with Flynn’s Dark Places."

—Booklist (starred review)

"Part thriller, part horror story, Final Girls borrows riffs from Friday the 13th, Halloween, and Single White Female, but remains its own sophisticated creature. . . . Taut and bloody, this chilling mystery invites Gillian Flynn comparisons. Readers should prepare to sleep with the lights on."

—ShelfAwareness

"The tone of this book is absolutely spot on—more Dark Places than Gone Girl—but it’s creepy as hell and it evokes the best qualities of ’80s slasher movies."

—Book Riot

"There are uncommon books and films that crack the ‘safe place,’ that have us forgetting it’s only a story. Nobody knows exactly how this is done, but when it’s done, we know it. Final Girls is operating on that plane; you will check your own arm for a wound a character suffers, you will look across the room when a character hears someone coming, and you will wonder if you yourself have the mettle to endure being a Final Girl."

—Josh Malerman, author of Bird Box

This one will keep you guessing until the very last page.

—PureWow

"Final Girls is a twisty horror novel that will keep you perched, terrified, at the edge of your seat until the very last page."

—Bustle

"An intriguing original idea. We’ve all shuddered at bloodbath stories—but how does the survivor cope? It made me think outside the psychological box. Fresh voice, great characterization, and unexpected surprises. This stayed in my mind because it was different."

—Jane Corry, Sunday Times bestselling author of My Husband’s Wife

Sager quickly ratchets up the mystery and the psychological suspense in classic slasher-movie fashion. . . . [and] takes time to delve into the head of the main character, creating an emotionally charged experience readers won’t soon forget.

—BookPage

A cleverly devised, expertly written psychological thriller.

—Fresh Fiction

"Final Girls is a compulsive read, with characters who are at once unreliable and sympathetic. Just when you think you’ve figured out the plot, the story pivots in a startling new direction. . . . A taut and original mystery that will keep you up late trying to figure out a final twist that you won’t see coming."

—Carla Norton, bestselling author of The Edge of Normal and What Doesn’t Kill Her

"Part psychological thriller, part homage to slasher flicks and film noir, Final Girls has a little bit of everything: a suspicious death, a damaged heroine, an unwelcome guest who trades in secrets, and not a single character you can trust. Plenty of nail-biting fun!"

—Hester Young, author of The Gates of Evangeline

"Smart and provocative, with plenty of twists and turns, Final Girls will have the reader racing breathlessly toward its shocking conclusion."

—Sophie Littlefield, award-winning author of The Guilty One and The Missing Place

Phenomenally drawn characters and an intriguing premise make this one of my favorite books I’ve read this year. An outstanding novel.

—Hollie Overton, bestselling author of Baby Doll

Captivating and compelling, with a refreshingly brilliant premise, Riley Sager is one to watch.

—Lisa Hall, bestselling author of Between You and Me and Tell Me No Lies

Book Title, Final Girls: A Novel, Author, Riley Sager, Imprint, DuttonPublisher logo

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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Publisher logo

Previously published as a Dutton hardcover, July 2017

First paperback printing, January 2018

Copyright © 2017 by Todd Ritter

Excerpt from Survive the Night copyright © 2021 by Todd Ritter

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

DUTTON and the D colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

The Library of Congress Has Catalogued the Hardcover of This Book as Follows:

Names: Sager, Riley, author.

Title: Final girls : a novel / Riley Sager.

Description: First edition. | New York, New York : Dutton, an imprint of Penguin Random House, 2017.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016034340 (print) | LCCN 2016046235 (ebook) | ISBN 9781101985366 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781101985373 (epub) | 9781101985380 (trade paperback)

Subjects: LCSH: Victims of violent crimes—Fiction. | Women—Violence against—Fiction. | Survival—Psychological aspects—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3618.I79 F56 2017 (print) | LCC PS3618.I79 (ebook) |

DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/201603440

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Christopher Lin; Cover image: Favor_of_God / Getty Images

btb_ppg_148769344_c0_r6

CONTENTS

Dedication

Pine Cottage | 1 a.m.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Pine Cottage | 3:37 p.m.

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Pine Cottage | 5:03 p.m.

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Pine Cottage | 6:18 p.m.

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Pine Cottage | 6:58 p.m.

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Two Days After Pine Cottage

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Pine Cottage | 9:54 p.m.

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

One Week After Pine Cottage

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Pine Cottage | 10:14 p.m.

Chapter 32

Pine Cottage | 10:56 p.m.

Chapter 33

Pine Cottage | 11:12 p.m.

Chapter 34

Pine Cottage | 11:42 p.m.

Chapter 35

Pine Cottage | 11:49 p.m.

Chapter 36

Pine Cottage | Midnight

Chapter 37

One Year After Pine Cottage

Two Years After Pine Cottage

Three Years After Pine Cottage

Nine Years After Pine Cottage

Nine Years and Eleven Months After Pine Cottage

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Four Months After Pine Cottage

Acknowledgments

Excerpt from Survive the Night

About the Author

_148769344_

To Mike

PINE COTTAGE

1 A.M.

The forest had claws and teeth.

All those rocks and thorns and branches bit at Quincy as she ran screaming through the woods. But she didn’t stop. Not when rocks dug into the soles of her bare feet. Not when a whip-thin branch lashed her face and a line of blood streaked down her cheek.

Stopping wasn’t an option. To stop was to die. So she kept running, even as a bramble wrapped around her ankle and gnawed at her flesh. The bramble stretched, quivering, before Quincy’s momentum yanked her free. If it hurt, she couldn’t tell. Her body already held more pain than it could handle.

It was instinct that made her run. An unconscious knowledge that she needed to keep going, no matter what. Already she had forgotten why. Memories of five, ten, fifteen minutes ago were gone. If her life depended on remembering what prompted her flight through the woods, she was certain she’d die right there on the forest floor.

So she ran. She screamed. She tried not to think about dying.

A white glow appeared in the distance, faint along the tree-choked horizon.

Headlights.

Was she near a road? Quincy hoped she was. Like her memories, all sense of direction was lost.

She ran faster, increased her screams, raced toward the light.

Another branch whacked her face. It was thicker than the first, like a rolling pin, and the impact both stunned and blinded her. Pain pulsed through her head as blue sparks throbbed across her blurred vision. When they cleared, she saw a silhouette standing out in the headlights’ glow.

A man.

Him.

No. Not Him.

Someone else.

Safety.

Quincy quickened her pace. Her blood-drenched arms reached out, as if that could somehow pull the stranger closer. The movement caused the pain in her shoulder to flare. And with the pain came not a memory but an understanding. One so brutally awful that it had to be real.

Only Quincy remained.

All the others were dead.

She was the last one left alive.

1.

My hands are covered in frosting when Jeff calls. Despite my best efforts, the French buttercream has oozed onto my knuckles and into the hammocks between my fingers, sticking there like paste. Only one pinkie finger remains unscathed, and I use it to tap the speakerphone button.

Carpenter and Richards, private investigators, I say, imitating the breathy voice of a film noir secretary. How may I direct your call?

Jeff plays along, his tough-guy tone pitched somewhere between Robert Mitchum and Dana Andrews. Put Miss Carpenter on the horn. I need to talk to her pronto.

Miss Carpenter is busy with an important case. May I take a message?

Yeah, Jeff says. Tell her my flight from Chi-Town has been delayed.

My façade drops. Oh, Jeff. Really?

Sorry, hon. The perils of flying out of the Windy City.

How long is the delay?

Anywhere from two hours to maybe-I’ll-be-home-by-next-week, Jeff says. I’m at least hoping it’s long enough for me to miss the start of Baking Season.

No such luck, pal.

How’s it going, by the way?

I look down at my hands. Messy.

Baking Season is Jeff’s name for the exhausting stretch between early October and late December, when all those dessert-heavy holidays arrive without reprieve. He likes to say it ominously, raising his hands and wiggling his fingers like spider legs.

Ironically, it’s a spider that’s caused my hands to be coated in buttercream. Made of double-dark chocolate frosting, its stomach teeters on the edge of a cupcake while black legs stretch across the top and down the sides. When I’m finished, the cupcakes will be posed, photographed, and displayed on my website’s roster of Halloween baking ideas. This year’s theme is "Revenge of the Yummy."

How’s the airport? I ask.

Crowded. But I think I’ll survive by hitting the terminal bar.

Call me if the delay gets any worse, I say. I’ll be here, covered in icing.

Bake like the wind, Jeff replies.

Call over, it’s back to the buttercream spider and the chocolate-cherry cupcake it partly covers. If I’ve done it right, the red center should ooze out at first bite. That test will come later. Right now, my chief concern is the outside.

Decorating cupcakes is harder than it seems. Especially when the results will be posted online for thousands to see. Smudges and smears aren’t allowed. In a high-def world, flaws loom large.

Details matter.

That’s one of the Ten Commandments on my website, squeezed between Measuring Cups Are Your Friends and Don’t Be Afraid to Fail.

I finish the first cupcake and am working on the second when my phone rings again. This time there’s not even a clean pinkie finger at my disposal, and I’m forced to ignore it. The phone continues to buzz while shimmying across the countertop. It then goes silent, pausing a moment before emitting a telltale beep.

A text.

Curious, I drop the icing bag, wipe my hands, and check the phone. It’s from Coop.

We need to talk. Face 2 face.

My fingers pause above the screen. Although it takes Coop three hours to drive into Manhattan, it’s a trip he’s willingly made many times in the past. When it’s important.

I text back. When?

His reply arrives in seconds. Now. Usual place.

A spot of worry presses the base of my spine. Coop is already here. Which means only one thing—something is wrong.

Before leaving, I rush through my usual preparations for a meeting with Coop. Teeth brushed. Lips glossed. Tiny Xanax popped. I wash the little blue pill down with some grape soda drunk straight from the bottle.

In the elevator, it occurs to me that I should have changed clothes. I’m still in my baking wear: black jeans, one of Jeff’s old button-downs, and red flats. All bear flecks of flour and faded splotches of food coloring. I notice a scrape of dried frosting on the back of my hand, skin peeking through the blue-black smear. It resembles a bruise. I lick it off.

Outside on Eighty-Second Street, I make a right onto Columbus, already packed with pedestrians. My body tightens at the sight of so many strangers. I stop and shove stiff fingers into my purse, searching for the can of pepper spray always kept there. There’s safety in numbers, yes, but also uncertainty. It’s only after finding the pepper spray that I start walking again, my face puckered into a don’t-bother-me scowl.

Although the sun is out, a tangible chill stings the air. Typical for early October in New York, when the weather seems to randomly veer between hot and cold. Yet fall is definitely making its swift approach. When Theodore Roosevelt Park comes into view, the leaves there are poised between green and gold.

Through the foliage, I can see the back of the American Museum of Natural History, which on this morning is swarmed with school kids. Their voices flit like birds among the trees. When one of them shrieks, the rest go silent. Just for a second. I freeze on the sidewalk, unnerved not by the shriek but by the silence that follows. But then the children’s voices start up again and I calm down. I resume walking, heading to a café two blocks south of the museum.

Our usual place.

Coop is waiting for me at a table by the window, looking the same as always. That sharp, craggy face that appears pensive in times of repose, such as now. A body that’s both long and thick. Large hands, one of which bears a ruby class ring instead of a wedding band. The only change is his hair, which he keeps trimmed close to the scalp. Each meeting always brings a few more flecks of gray.

His presence in the café is noticed by all the nannies and caffeinated hipsters who crowd the place. Nothing like a cop in full uniform to put people on edge. Even without it, Coop cuts an intimidating figure. He’s a big man, consisting of rolling hills of muscle. The starched blue shirt and black trousers with the knife-edge creases only amplify his size. He lifts his head as I enter, and I notice the exhaustion in his eyes. He must have driven here directly from working the third shift.

Two mugs are already on the table. Earl Grey with milk and extra sugar for me. Coffee for Coop. Black. Unsweetened.

Quincy, he says, nodding.

There’s always a nod. It’s Coop’s version of a handshake. We never hug. Not since the desperate one I gave him the night we first met. No matter how many times I see him, that moment is always there, playing on a loop until I push it away.

They’re dead, I had choked out while clutching him, the words gurgling thickly in the back of my throat. They’re all dead. And he’s still out here.

Ten seconds later, he saved my life.

This is certainly a surprise, I say as I take a seat. There’s a tremor in my voice that I try to tamp down. I don’t know why Coop’s called me, but if it’s bad news, I want to be calm when I hear it.

You’re looking well, Coop says while giving me the quick, concerned once-over I’m now accustomed to. But you’ve lost some weight.

There’s worry in his voice too. He’s thinking about six months after Pine Cottage, when my appetite had left me so completely that I ended up back in the hospital, force-fed through a tube. I remember waking to find Coop standing by my bed, staring at the plastic hose slithered up my nostril.

Don’t disappoint me, Quincy, he said then. You didn’t survive that night just to die like this.

It’s nothing, I say. I’ve finally learned I don’t have to eat everything I bake.

And how’s that going? The baking thing?

Great, actually. I gained five thousand followers last quarter and got another corporate advertiser.

That’s great, Coop says. Glad everything is going well. One of these days, you should actually bake something for me.

Like the nod, this is another of Coop’s constants. He always says it, never means it.

How’s Jefferson? he asks.

He’s good. The Public Defender’s Office just made him the lead attorney on a big, juicy case.

I leave out how the case involves a man accused of killing a narcotics detective in a bust gone wrong. Coop already looks down on Jeff’s job. There’s no need to toss more fuel onto that particular fire.

Good for him, he says.

He’s been gone the past two days. Had to fly to Chicago to get statements from family members. Says it’ll make a jury more sympathetic.

Hmm, Coop replies, not quite listening. I guess he hasn’t proposed yet.

I shake my head. I told Coop I thought Jeff was going to propose on our August vacation to the Outer Banks, but no ring so far. That’s the real reason I’ve recently lost weight. I’ve become the kind of girlfriend who takes up jogging just to fit into a hypothetical wedding dress.

Still waiting, I say.

It’ll happen.

And what about you? I ask, only half teasing. Have you finally found a girlfriend?

Nope.

I arch a brow. A boyfriend?

This visit is about you, Quincy, Coop says, not even cracking a smile.

Of course. You ask. I answer.

That’s how things go between us when we meet once, twice, maybe three times a year.

More often than not, the visits resemble therapy sessions, with me never getting a chance to ask Coop questions of my own. I’m only privy to the basics of his life. He’s forty-one, spent time in the Marines before becoming a cop, and had barely shed his rookie status before finding me screaming among the trees. And while I know he still patrols the same town where all those horrible things happened, I have no idea if he’s happy. Or satisfied. Or lonely. I never hear from him on holidays. Never once got a Christmas card. Nine years earlier, at my father’s funeral, he sat in the back row and slipped out of the church before I could even thank him for coming. The closest he gets to showing affection is on my birthday, when he sends the same text: Another year you almost didn’t get. Live it.

Jeff will come around, Coop says, again bending the conversation to his will. It’ll happen at Christmas, I bet. Guys like to propose then.

He takes a gulp of coffee. I sip my tea and blink, keeping my eyes shut an extra beat, hoping the darkness will allow me to feel the Xanax taking hold. Instead, I’m more anxious than when I walked in.

I open my eyes to see a well-dressed woman entering the café with a chubby, equally well-dressed toddler. An au pair, probably. Most women under thirty in this neighborhood are. On warm, sunny days they jam the sidewalks—a parade of interchangeable girls fresh out of college, armed with lit degrees and student loans. The only reason this one catches my attention is because we look alike. Fresh-faced and well scrubbed. Blond hair reined in by a ponytail. Neither too thin nor too plump. The product of hearty, milk-fed Midwestern stock.

That could have been me in a different life. One without Pine Cottage and blood and a dress that changed colors like in some horrible dream.

That’s something else I think about every time Coop and I meet—he thought my dress was red. He’d whispered it to the dispatcher when he called for backup. It’s on both the police transcript, which I’ve read multiple times, and the dispatch recording, which I managed to listen to only once.

Someone’s running through the trees. Caucasian female. Young. She’s wearing a red dress. And she’s screaming.

I was running through the trees. Galloping, really. Kicking up leaves, numb to the pain coursing through my entire body. And although all I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears, I was indeed screaming. The only thing Coop got wrong was the color of my dress.

It had, until an hour earlier, been white.

Some of the blood was mine. The rest belonged to the others. Janelle, mostly, from when I held her moments before I got hurt.

I’ll never forget the look on Coop’s face when he realized his mistake. That slight widening of the eyes. The oblong shape of his mouth as he tried to keep it from dropping open. The startled huffing sound he made. Two parts shock, one part pity.

It’s one of the few things I actually can remember.

My experience at Pine Cottage is broken into two distinct halves. There’s the beginning, fraught with fear and confusion, in which Janelle lurched out of the woods, not yet dead but well on her way. Then there’s the end, in which Coop found me in my red-not-red dress.

Everything between those two points remains a blank in my memory. An hour, more or less, entirely wiped clean.

Dissociative amnesia is the official diagnosis. More commonly known as repressed memory syndrome. Basically, what I witnessed was too horrific for my fragile mind to hold on to. So I mentally cut it out. A self-performed lobotomy.

That didn’t stop people from begging me to remember what happened. Well-meaning family. Misguided friends. Psychiatrists with visions of published case studies dancing in their heads. Think, they all told me. Really think about what happened. As if that would make any difference. As if my being able to recall every blood-specked detail could somehow bring the rest of my friends back to life.

Still, I tried. Therapy. Hypnosis. Even a ridiculous sense-memory game in which a frizzy-haired specialist held scented paper strips to my blindfolded face, asking how each one made me feel. Nothing worked. In my mind, that hour is a blackboard completely erased. There’s nothing left but dust.

I understand that urge for more information, that longing for details. But in this case, I’m fine without them. I know what happened at Pine Cottage. I don’t need to remember exactly how it happened. Because here’s the thing about details—they can also be a distraction. Add too many and it obscures the brutal truth about a situation. They become the gaudy necklace that hides the tracheotomy scar.

I make no attempts to disguise my scars. I just pretend they don’t exist.

The pretending continues in the café. As if my acting like Coop isn’t about to lob a bad-news grenade into my lap will actually keep it from happening.

Are you in the city on business? I ask. If you’re staying long, Jeff and I would love to take you to dinner. All three of us seemed to like that Italian place we went to last year.

Coop looks at me across the table. His eyes are the lightest shade of blue I’ve ever seen. Lighter even than the pill currently dissolving into my central nervous system. But they are not a soothing blue. There’s an intensity to his eyes that always makes me look away, even though I want to peer deeper, as if that alone can make clear the thoughts hiding just behind them. They are a ferocious blue—the kind of eyes that you want in the person protecting you.

I think you know why I’m here, he says.

I honestly don’t.

I have some bad news. It hasn’t reached the press yet, but it will. Very soon.

Him.

That’s my first thought. This has something to do with Him. Even though I watched Him die, my brain sprints to that inevitable, inconceivable realm where He survived Coop’s bullets, escaped, hid for years, and is now emerging with the intent of finding me and finishing what He started.

He’s alive.

A lump of anxiety fills my stomach, heavy and unwieldy. It feels like a basketball-size tumor has formed there. I’m struck by the sudden urge to pee.

It’s not that, Coop says, easily knowing exactly what I’m thinking. He’s gone, Quincy. We both know that.

While nice to hear, it does nothing to put me at ease. I’ve balled my hands into fists pressed knuckle-down atop the table.

Please just tell me what’s wrong.

It’s Lisa Milner, Coop says.

What about her?

She’s dead, Quincy.

The news sucks the air out of my chest. I think I gasp. I’m not sure, because I’m too distracted by the watery echo of her voice in my memory.

I want to help you, Quincy. I want to teach you how to be a Final Girl.

And I had let her. At least for a little while. I assumed she knew best.

Now she’s gone.

Now there are only two of us.

2.

Lisa Milner’s version of Pine Cottage was a sorority house in Indiana. One long-ago February night, a man named Stephen Leibman knocked on the front door. He was a college dropout who lived with his dad. Portly. Had a face as jiggly and jaundiced as chicken fat.

The sorority sister who answered the door found him on the front steps holding a hunting knife. One minute later, she was dead. Leibman dragged the body inside, locked all the doors, and cut the lights and phone line. What followed was roughly an hour of carnage that brought an end to nine young women.

Lisa Milner had come close to making it an even ten.

During the slaughter, she took refuge in the bedroom of a sorority sister, cowering alone inside a closet, hugging clothes that weren’t hers and praying the madman wouldn’t find her.

Eventually, he did.

Lisa laid eyes on Stephen Leibman when he ripped open the closet door. She saw first the knife, then his face, both dripping blood. After a stab to the shoulder, she managed to knee him in the groin and flee the room. She had reached the first floor and was making her way to the front door when Leibman caught up to her, knife jabbing.

She took four stab wounds to her chest and stomach, plus a five-inch slice down the arm she had raised to defend herself. One more thrust of the blade would have finished her off. But Lisa, screaming in pain and dizzy from blood loss, somehow grabbed Leibman’s ankle. He fell. The knife skittered. Lisa grabbed it and shoved it hilt-deep into his gut. Stephen Leibman bled out lying next to her on the floor.

Details. They flow freely when they’re not yours.

I was seven when it happened. It’s my first memory of actually noticing something on the news. I couldn’t help it. Not with my mother standing before the console television, a hand over her mouth, repeating the same two words: Sweet Jesus. Sweet Jesus.

What I saw on that TV scared and confused and upset me. The weeping bystanders. The convoy of tarp-covered stretchers slipping beneath yellow tape crisscrossing the door. The splash of blood, bright against the Indiana snow. It was the moment I realized that bad things could happen, that evil existed in the world.

When I began to cry, my father scooped me up and carried me into the kitchen. As my tears dried to salt, he placed a menagerie of bowls on the counter and filled them with flour, sugar, butter, and eggs. He gave me a spoon and let me mix them all together. My first baking lesson.

There’s such a thing as too much sweetness, Quincy, he told me. All the best bakers know this. There needs to be a counterpoint. Something dark. Or bitter. Or sour. Unsweetened chocolate. Cardamom and cinnamon. Lemon and lime. They cut through all the sugar, taming it just enough so that when you do taste the sweetness, you appreciate it all the more.

Now the only taste in my mouth is a dry sourness. I dump more sugar into my tea and drain the cup. It doesn’t help. The sugar rush only counteracts the Xanax, which is finally starting to work its magic. They clash deep inside me, making me antsy.

When did it happen? I ask Coop, once my initial shock reduces to a simmering sense of disbelief. "How did it happen?"

Last night. Muncie PD discovered her body around midnight. She had killed herself.

Sweet Jesus.

I say it loud enough to get the attention of my au pair look-alike seated a table away. She glances up from her iPhone, head tilted like a cocker spaniel’s.

Suicide? I say, the word bitter on my tongue. "I thought she was happy. I mean, she seemed happy."

Lisa’s voice is still in my head.

You can’t change what’s happened. The only thing you can control is how you deal with it.

They’re waiting on the tox report to see if she had been drinking or was on drugs, Coop says.

So this could have been an accident?

It was no accident. Her wrists were slit.

My heart stops for a moment. I’m conscious of the empty pause where a pulse should be. Sadness pours into the void, filling me so quickly I start to feel dizzy.

I want details, I say.

You don’t, Coop says. It won’t change anything.

It’s information. That’s better than nothing.

Coop stares into his coffee, as if examining his bright eyes in the muddy reflection. Eventually, he says, Here’s what I know: Lisa called 911 at quarter to midnight, apparently with second thoughts.

What did she say?

Nothing. She hung up immediately. Dispatch traced the call and sent a pair of blues to her house. The door was unlocked, so they let themselves in. That’s when they found her. She was in the bathtub. Her phone was in the water with her. Probably slipped from her hands.

Coop looks out the window. He’s tired, I can tell. And no doubt worried I might one day try something similar. But that thought never occurred to me, even when I was back in the hospital being fed through a tube. I reach across the table, aiming for his hands. He pulls them away before I can grasp them.

When did you hear about it? I ask.

A couple hours ago. Got a call from an acquaintance with the Indiana State Police. We keep in touch.

I don’t need to ask Coop how he knows a trooper in Indiana. Massacre survivors aren’t the only ones who need support systems.

She thought it’d be good to warn you, he says. For when word gets out.

The press. Of course. I like to picture them as ravenous vultures, slick innards dripping from their beaks.

I’m not going to talk to them.

This again gets the attention of the au pair, who looks up, eyes narrowed. I stare her down until she sets her iPhone on the table and pretends to fuss with the toddler in her care.

You don’t have to, Coop says. But at the very least you should consider releasing a statement of condolence. Those tabloid guys are going to hunt you down like dogs. Might as well toss them a bone before they get the chance.

Why do I need to say anything?

You know why, Coop says.

Why can’t Samantha do it?

Because she’s still off the grid. I doubt she’s going to pop out of hiding after all these years.

Lucky girl.

That just leaves you, Coop says. "That’s why I wanted to come and tell you the news in person. Now, I know I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do,

Reviews for Final Girls

[sheriawilkinson · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Final Girls by Riley Sager

The story moves at a fast pace with an original, compelling, thought provoking, thrilling plot. With an unreliable narrator (Quincy) and mysterious characters I was quickly drawn in deep. With so many twists and turns and shocking ending, I was not disappointed.

Overall I found Final Girls very enjoyable. I highly recommend to those who enjoy a great psychological thriller. A must read for Riley Sager fans.

[delphimo_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

What a roller coaster ride with Riley Sager’s novel, Final Girls. The title refers to a woman or women that survive a mass killing. In this story, Quincy Carpenter survived a brutal weekend killing spree in a remote area in Indiana. Another Final Girl, Lisa Milner, dies. Her death looks to be a suicide, but final discovery points to murder. The story pieces together what happened to Quincy all those years ago and her loss memory of the events, but slowly the vivid details return to Quincy. A masterful story of murder and discovery. The ending appears out of nowhere.

[carol420 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

"Ten years ago, six friends went on vacation...one made it back alive"
The story switches back and forth between the present day and the events taking place in the past at Pine Cottage. The main character, Quincy, retains no memory of the event that took place at Pine Cottage, and she really wants it to remain that way. Throughout the story, we are fed small pieces of that fateful weekend at Pine Cottage. I don't usually care for stories to be told in pieces like this, but it actually turned out to be a very nice touch. Quincy is a likable character. She is obviously a mess, but she did after all survive a serial killer. Quincy works and stays close to home. You will be able to easily understand her wanting to work from home and her avoidance all social events. The ending was a bit disappointing. I expected more from the buildup that took place, but I will admit I never expected it or saw it coming. Good work Mr. Sager! If you read and liked this author's earlier book Gone Girl, I'm fairly sure you will also like this one.

[sucharita1986 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Final Girls by Riley Sager: A Thriller That Falls Short of Expectations

Final Girls by Riley Sager is a psychological mystery thriller that centers on three women grappling with post-traumatic stress. While the premise is intriguing, the pacing of the book falters midway through, leaving readers wanting more momentum.

Although the plot includes the essential elements of a gripping thriller—suspense, mystery, and dark secrets—the execution falls short. The protagonist, Quincy, comes off as somewhat irritating, making it difficult to fully connect with her journey.

One major drawback is the climax, which feels forced and underwhelming. Despite the potential for a shocking finale, the resolution lacks the impact many readers might expect from a thriller of this nature.

Final Girls is a decent read for fans of the genre, but in my opinion, it’s not Riley Sager’s best work. Others might enjoy the book more, but for me, it lands at a solid 3 stars.

[lexilewords · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

(insert Quicksilver gif of "didn't see that coming)

Oh gosh oh my. OK folks let's start this wild ride I found myself on.

What drew me to this book originally was the title "Final Girls". One of my favorite tropes and one criminally unused and overused somehow. (for the record my favorite modern Final Girl is Emma Roberts in Scream 4, much like Neve Campbell in Scream, Emma is as much a deconstruction of the trope as she is an embodiment of it at times).

After reading the excerpt in the recent Buzz Books sampler I absolutely needed to read it. Once again ALA Midwinter provided me with this chance.

This as much a thriller as it is a psychological look at how time, memory and emotions can make a person blind. There is so much horror for Quincy to have endured it makes sense for her to push it out of memory. Not just of the killings, but of other factors - if she remembered she'd have to examine how certain other clues would mess her up even more.

I will say the ending is startling though after looking at things objectively not a surprise. Sager takes you on this wild rager of a ride and from page one the reader is so tied up in the feelings of Quincy that you too get blinded.

So so good. So recommended.

[sublunarie · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was so annoyed by this book.

[danielle.desrochers · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Definitely not Riley Sager's best work. Also, not the worst book ever.
I didn't see the last few twists coming, which was good!
It just took too long to get going.

[zmagic69 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

So this is barely a three star book. It is the second book I have read from this author and it was definitely not as good as Home Before Dark.
The Final Girls tells the story of Quincy Carpenter who is the only person to survive a massacre at a cabin she and her friends stay at in college. The title refers to two other women who were also Final Girls from different massacres.
So here are the problems with the book.
1. For most of the book nothing happens. Not it the chapters that take place at the cabin Quincy stayed at in college leading up to the massacre nor in the chapters in the present, when she is a whiny nothing.
2. For me I figured out who wasn’t telling the truth in the first 30 pages, and only finished the book to see how i is t all played out.
The story idea was great but the execution of the story was terrible.

[jarabetica · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

FEBRUARY 2024 BOOK 23 ???? EMOJI \ OPINION ???

My grandmother always used to say that "nobody gives something for nothing." Perhaps the older ones here know that before the Euro came in, we had our wonderful peseta. According to what my grandmother told me, the real—I believe I remember—was, because I did not live with that currency, half of a peseta and a duro were five pesetas. In short, nobody gives you something amazing in exchange for nothing or little (I clarify that I did live with the peseta; what I did not know were the reales).

The book begins in a somewhat disconcerting way with our protagonist, Jules Larsen, just waking up in a hospital after being hit by a car. Following this introduction, the author takes us back six days to Jules, twenty-five years old, being interviewed by Leslie for a job position in a prestigious and emblematic building, The Bartholomew, on the island of Manhattan across from Central Park. The job would involve taking care of an apartment in that eleven-story building since one of the rules is that no apartment should remain empty.

In exchange for the not insignificant amount of four thousand dollars a month, with a total of three months under contract, twelve thousand dollars, which would come in handy due to her precarious personal and work situation—having no home after fighting with her partner and having lost her job—it's quite curious money for essentially doing nothing. Leslie accepts the job without hesitation, despite some of the absurd rules, like not being able to have guests, always being there at night, and not disturbing other tenants.

Her friend Chloe's reluctance will not make her pass up what she considers a golden opportunity to fix her battered finances. But at The Bartholomew, nothing is as it seems, and from the very first night, Leslie will realize that something is going on there...

I totally recommend reading it, as you won't be able to stop because you'll want to know what happens in that building. Although it's not one of the best suspense books I've read, it kept me engaged, and I did not foresee the outcome at any moment. I will definitely read more books by the author, who I already have in my sights and, by the way, writes under a pseudonym. (Translated from Spanish)

[lynnmpk · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

An alright mystery/thriller. It was kinda slow in the beginning and middle, but really picked up towards the end. I figured out the killer pretty early, though there were a few times that I doubted myself. There were a few ridiculous moments that had me rolling my eyes. I would have liked it more if it was faster paced.

Slightly better than Home Before Dark, and not as good as Lock Every Door.

[Monika · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Pleasantly surprised with this book; I didn't have high expectations, but in the end, it entertained me, made me think and suspect, and made me want to keep reading to discover the truth. The protagonist finds the job of her life, a fortune just for living in a luxury apartment. The downsides are a series of nonsensical rules, like not being able to sleep out any night, no visitors, and so on, a list of absurdities that draws attention. Until, after living there and getting to know the neighbors, she realizes it isn't as wonderful as it initially seemed: suspicions, fears, insecurities, distrust, and the constant feeling of being watched. In summary, it's a good read; I recommend it because I also liked the ending, the resolution of the plot is very well constructed. (Translated from Spanish)

[purplepaste-311796 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I liked the premise of this book but none (NONE) of the characters. The central character's relationship was SO HORRIBLE that I thought for sure it was a spoiler. I'm a bit suspicious of the rate Riley Sager is cranking these out. I mean, hooray for him (HIM), he found a formula-- but sheesh. It'd be a decent beach read because the less you think while reading it the better.
I've read a few articles since finishing this book about Sager and other male authors who have started taking on what the articles refer to as "feminine sounding names." I'll admit it, I was more inclined to read this because I like reading horror/thrillers written by women with female main characters. I really like a well-written character, especially a female one. I was barking up the wrong tree here. I'll give you a non-spoiler-y example. There's a scene in which one of the "final girls" paints another's fingernails-- non-consensually. With black fingernail polish. Shoplifted from a DEPARTMENT STORE in 2020. WTF. Has this author never tried to clip a dog's nails? You can't do flip-all with someone who isn't ready for a manicure. MUCH LESS is this magical polish that is sold in a department store going to DRY IMMEDIATELY for the bs that comes next. What the what the what. At least walk around a freaking JC Penney's next time you are doing book research, dude.

[birdo82 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Though the climax devolves into typical, rudderless thriller convention that borders on the illogical, the journey there will please most readers with a strong premise and even stronger characters.

[nyiper · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Whew.....clever and creepy, as promised by a Stephen King comment on the cover. I'm catching up with Sager's books. The twists and turns an author of a thriller comes up with, as in the case of this book, are amazing. Where all of this imagination comes from??? Incredible to ponder.

[jckphnx · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Though the climax devolves into typical, rudderless thriller convention that borders on the illogical, the journey there will please most readers with a strong premise and even stronger characters.

[ExLibriBella · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Jules has just lost her job and her boyfriend, her parents have died, and her sister is missing, leaving her with only one friend in her life.

In her job search, she comes across a discreet ad that reads "Caretaker needed for an apartment" which catches her attention and leads her to a luxurious building in Manhattan, The Bartholomew.

A juicy salary that could change her life and a beautiful view convince our protagonist to accept the job. But there are three rules:

1. Visits are not allowed.
2. No overnight stays outside the apartment.
3. Under no circumstances should the tenants be disturbed.

Easy money!

What she doesn’t know is that The Bartholomew has a dark past, and the present is not far from it.

I invite you to the suspense that this book immerses you in; it's very easy to read and follow the plot. You won't want to put it down. (Translated from Spanish)

[jynell-71874 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Joining this club has never been so traumatizing...

Quincy survived a massacre ten years ago and is now lumped together with two other women who endured similar tragedies, coined "The Final Girls" by the press. She's worked hard to overcome what happened to her, content with her boyfriend and working on her baking website. Her hero, Coop, the cop that rescued her, even stands by her side all these years, answering her call anytime she needs him. But when one of the Final Girls ends up murdered and the other Final Girl shows up at her doorstep, she's forced to take another hard look in the mirror.

What I didn't see coming was the end, like all good thrillers. Little twists and turns were carefully planted along the way and I found myself needing to know all the answers to the questions this book poses. Then, like being slapped sideways, the end of the book arrives and spills all the juicy details and leaves your brain struggling to understand what just happened.

The narrator, Erin Bennett, is one of my favorites. Her voice is beautiful to listen to - tone, phrasing.. Especially while reading a thriller, a good narrator is key. I enjoy listening to anything she narrates.

Definitely recommend to anyone who enjoys a good thriller! Riley Sager is definitely top notch!

[toric90 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This one wasn't for me. I probably would've DNFed it had I not been listening to it on a long car ride. It didn't really make a ton of sense to me. I did keep reading because I wanted to know what the twists were, but once I got there, I really didn't care for the ending at all. I may have set myself up for failure though by reading multiple final girl tropes back to back. Riley Sager seems to be a bit hit or miss with me but I didn't find anything really smart or really clever and it left me with way more questions than answers. I just felt like there were too many red herrings thrown in to be a red herring without really explaining why it was written other than to present a twist option and throw the reader off. Meh. It also tried to have a "strong" female protagonist but a lot of stuff in here just hit wrong for me.

[Unlocutor · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The protagonist had some doors closed in her life and she had no idea that even worse ones were about to open when she entered the Bartholomew building.
This book truly captivated me from the start; the way it is narrated and the increasingly shocking events make it hard to put down until it's finished. (Translated from Spanish)

[CindyAlzaga? · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Anyone who wants to read this thriller should know that it is more or less like a season of American Horror Story without supernatural elements. The comparison is even made within the story itself after about forty pages.

The moments of tension are too good. You become a detective, piecing together what is happening, and the final twist is something completely different, but just as good or better than what you had imagined. (Translated from Spanish)

[Vale Soto · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I loved it, I loved it, I loved it
It's one of those thrillers that you can't put down once you start.
The ending was on point.
4 out of 5 gargoyles. (Translated from Spanish)

[Roloc77 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excellent story, a read that hooks you from the beginning to the end. It’s a suspenseful tale that, although it seems predictable, ultimately ends up being something unexpected. Fear, anxiety, courage, screams, relief, anger—everything is felt between the pages of this GREAT book!!! HIGHLY RECOMMENDED. (Translated from Spanish)

[MCCK · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Shortly after I began reading, something resonated in my memory: a luxurious 19th-century apartment located over Central Park in New York's Upper West Side, with strange rules and inhabited by older people who seem to form a sect? I had read that story somewhere, and I finally remembered, “Rosemary’s Baby,” by Ira Levin, better known for its film adaptation.
Of course, “Close All the Doors” is not a copy, but it undoubtedly manages to recreate the atmosphere, initially light and then increasingly oppressive, of Levin's novel. That, in itself, is already a merit.
The novel is divided into three parts.
In the first part, the characters are introduced, first in a familiar, friendly atmosphere, but one that starts to implant some doubts due to overly obsessive rules and the old saying: “when the charity is large, even the saint distrusts.” Gradually, the atmosphere becomes tense, people begin to disappear, and Jules, the protagonist, starts to investigate and plunges into a sinister world of serial murders and a hellish cult.
In the second part, the novel takes an unexpected turn, which I will refrain from revealing to avoid spoilers, and concludes in a splendid way.
The third part is a long explanation from the author about what happened to each character. It is true that readers are curious, but he could have left those explanations to our imagination.
In my opinion, this third part weakens the book, which would have been brilliant had it ended at the conclusion of the second part, with the apotheosis of Jules.
I am sure that if a movie is ever made, any director will end it with that scene.
Good book, it’s a quick read and very entertaining. (Translated from Spanish)

[ijustgetbored · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Predictable and formulaic. It's better-written than some pulpy thrillers, but quality writing doesn't matter if the plot is thin and plodding.

The premise is promising, but the book is tedious. The characters themselves are one-dimensional, and it's hard to get invested in their struggles (such as they are). There are side plots that go nowhere, and the flashbacks are more filler than anything else.

[thebookqueensx · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

a solid 3.5.

TW: death, graphic violence, gore, SA, rape, eating disorders, suicide/suicidal thoughts, alcoholism, drug addiction, murder

this is the third Riley Sager book I have listened to in the past week or so and I am really enjoying their books. out of the three that I have read so far, this is my second favorite, behind The Last Time I Liedand in front of Lock Every Door.

the story itself is very interesting. the book starts by introducing the main character, Quincy, who is the sole survivor of a mass murder that happened years ago and has been nicknamed a "Final Girl" by the media, along with two other women, Sam and Lisa. when Quincy gets word that Lisa has committed suicide, Sam shows up on her doorstep out of nowhere to "check on her". after a couple of days with Sam staying at her apartment though, she starts to question why Sam is really there and what her true motives are.

the book, like all of his other works, follows two different timelines. the current and Quincy's past on the night she became a Final Girl. these glimpses into the past are short and they don't really do much for the story in my opinion. the twists in this book really got me though and were interesting. Sam's actions throughout the book when she is with Quincy also kept me wanting to read more to try to figure out her true motives.

overall, I would recommend it to people that are just getting into the thriller genre and are a fan of teen slasher movies. this is his debut novel, so if you read this and didn't enjoy it, I highly suggest some of his other works because they get a lot better.

what I liked:
~plot and story idea
~some good plot twists
~atmoshperic AF in the older timeline (creepy cabin in the woods)
~kept you wanting to read to try to figure out the reason why Sam found Quincy and came out of hiding
~writing style (I enjoy split timelines)

what I didn't like:
~some pacing issues (slow beginning, end a little too fast and short)
~not a fan of the flashbacks
~not a lot of character development on Quincy's part
~really not a fan of Jeff, Quincy's partner
~ I did predict the final plot twist (but there were others that I did not expect at all)

[Magalitad · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

"Now I know that what they really do is scream" ... A story full of suspense and unexpected twists, which even when it seems predictable at the beginning, continues to surprise you with the course of events. It tells the life of Jules, a young woman of twenty-five who in the blink of an eye loses her job, her home, and her partner; tired of her precarious situation, she finds a job ad to take care of an apartment. When she arrives at the meeting, her first sight is of an imposing building across from Central Park: the Bartholomew. With a dream apartment and a great salary that will undoubtedly get her out of future mishaps, she decides to stay there for the three months indicated in the contract, especially since she has no one else but herself. During her stay, the protagonist has encounters with famous people, retired actresses, and a movie star; how can a girl have such luck? A dark secret haunts the Bartholomew, and Jules is drawn into the beginning of a nightmare that haunts her both in dreams and in life. The story is written lightly, unusually gripping from the first chapters; the characters are easy to place, and each one has a reason to exist in the plot, although not immediately. The protagonist has a past that gradually clarifies and which justifies many of her attitudes in the present; however, she sometimes forgets her role as the main character throughout the story. Jules is one of those characters who have their moments of contradictory actions, but ultimately endear themselves to the reader with their realism. The ending is quite appropriate; I believe it lived up to the suspense maintained in previous chapters. It wraps up certain details in less than a sentence, but it is fair to the main characters or those who were more present in the story. Often, it is difficult to find a book that contains true emotion for the reader. Personally, I had no expectations for this particular story; however, the terror and originality are printed in most of the text, so I do not regret giving this book a chance. Recommended for those who enjoy suspense, thrillers, and something uncomplicated to read, perfect for those starting in the world of reading. (Translated from Spanish)

[purple_pisces22 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Wasn't sure about this one going in based on the reviews but it stood on it's own. Numerous times I thought I had it figured out only to be surprised again by a twist. It could easily be compared to a teen slasher movie, so I see why some weren't really taken with it. Overall, worth the read.

[sarah220-732610 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was very suspenseful. Told in two timelines with two narrators (first and third on the same character). Sager did a great job of laying out possible solutions to the mystery. Pretty early on we realize that we can't trust the narrator which widens the possibilities. I finished the last half of the book in one sitting (and I'm tired today because of it) so you may want to save this for a weekend.

[katehonig · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was full of twists and turns, and I did not see the end coming at all!

Quincy is a "final girl" a young woman who is the sole survivor of a horrific massacre.  The book starts when she finds out that another final girl, Lisa has been found dead in mysterious circumstances.  She begins to spin out of control, unsure of what this means for her and very afraid.  The last final girl, Sam shows up to help Quincy solve the mystery of what really happened to Lisa, but Sam and Quincy both have their secrets.

[write5review · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

A Novel Massacre

This should have been a diverting reading thrill ride: slasher movie meets survivor syndrome meets serial killer meets crazy girls and crazier guys behaving stupidly meets baking blog. Yes, baking blog.

Quincy Carpenter lone survivor of the horrific Pine Cottage slaughter reassembles her life and keeps her demons at bay by starting and operating a successful baking blog. She has a lawyer boyfriend who she will probably marry, a nice apartment shared with him in New York City, and a caring cop, Coop, who rescued her and looks over her from afar and helping over rough patches. “Final Girls” comes from the moniker tagged to the last girl standing in a slasher movie. Here, Quincy shares the title with two others who have survived their own massacres, Lisa and Sam. Quincy is on an even keel until well-adjusted counselor Lisa supposedly kills herself and rough, daring, and angry Sam turns up on Quincy’s doorstep. Then everything goes to hell in a handbasket, so to speak. Who is killing the Final Girls?

Sounds good until you find yourself bogged down in some silly psychological nonsense, some really awful dialogue, a too obvious denouement, and plenty of ham-handed descriptions beginning with the first sentences, which set the tone for the ground you are about to tread: “The forest had claws and teeth. All those rocks and thorns and branches bit at Quincy as she ran screaming through the woods.” But then you go on because, well, you are like the character in a murder or horror tale, the one that says to him- or herself, “Don’t open the door”; that you yell to, “Don’t open that door.” They always do, or else no story. We always do; we hope for the best.

Now this is just one opinion. Plenty of people seem to have enjoyed Final Girls and you may, as well. However, if you are looking for a new psychological thriller that is really well done, try Fiona Barton’s The Child. It packs a real emotional wallop. Or for something more literary and very, very clever, look at The Night Ocean, a fantasy mystery about H. P. Lovecraft. Or turn to a classic in the mystery-thriller-lunatic killer genre, John Fowles’ 1963 blockbuster The Collector. This one is truly brilliant.