This book exhausted me. I thought I’d take a quick sojourn out of my complete immersion in Patricia Highsmith to read this novel, which came highly recommended from a friend with spectacular literary taste. And yet, I didn’t feel any connection to the characters and plodded along dutifully for hundreds of pages past my usual expiration date. It’s a tangle of characters and emotions, all swirling around the main story of one man shooting another man’s son by accident, and then donating their own son to the victim’s family to raise. Throughout the present day narrative there are specks of an older story of ancestors which bogged it down further for me. I can appreciate the sparkle of the writing, but it lacked the necessary oomph to reach into my chest and pull out my heart. A hollow feeling came across, and I dreaded reaching for it in between gorging myself on Highsmith.