Women's Fiction
![Alicia Thompson - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_alicia_thompson.jpg)
Love in the Time of Serial Killers
Turns out that reading nothing but true crime isn't exactly conducive to modern dating-and one woman is going to have to learn how to give love a chance when she's used to suspecting the worst.
PhD candidate Phoebe Walsh has always been obsessed with true crime. She's even analyzing the genre in her dissertation-if she can manage to finish writing it. It's hard to find the time while she spends the summer in Florida, cleaning out her childhood home, dealing with her obnoxiously good-natured younger brother, and grappling with the complicated feelings of mourning a father she hadn't had a relationship with for years.
It doesn't help that she's low-key convinced that her new neighbor, Sam Dennings, is a serial killer (he may dress business casual by day, but at night he's clearly up to something). It's not long before Phoebe realizes that Sam might be something much scarier-a genuinely nice guy who can pierce her armor to reach her vulnerable heart.
PhD candidate Phoebe Walsh has always been obsessed with true crime. She's even analyzing the genre in her dissertation-if she can manage to finish writing it. It's hard to find the time while she spends the summer in Florida, cleaning out her childhood home, dealing with her obnoxiously good-natured younger brother, and grappling with the complicated feelings of mourning a father she hadn't had a relationship with for years.
It doesn't help that she's low-key convinced that her new neighbor, Sam Dennings, is a serial killer (he may dress business casual by day, but at night he's clearly up to something). It's not long before Phoebe realizes that Sam might be something much scarier-a genuinely nice guy who can pierce her armor to reach her vulnerable heart.
Editorial Reviews
"Alicia Thompson read my mind and gifted me with the true-crime loving, grad-student protagonist of my heart! Unique, sexy, hilarious, charming, Love in the Time of Serial Killers is to die for: the perfect beach read for anyone who loves witty banter, intelligent plotting, and compelling characters. Let Phoebe and Sam's hilarious interactions and blazing chemistry suck you in. The true crime is NOT reading this novel!"-Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis
"A criminally addictive romance. With excellent wry humor, lovably messy characters, and so many heart-squeezing moments, this book is sheer perfection from beginning to end. Phoebe and Sam have a permanent spot on my list of favorite fictional couples."-Rachel Lynn Solomon, New York Times bestselling author of Weather Girl
"Love in the Time of Serial Killers is a smart, sexy, and unique rom-com that I couldn't put down! Phoebe is an immensely relatable and likable character, one whose prickly exterior hides a deep fear of vulnerability. It's a joy to watch her realize that the only thing scarier than a grisly murder is falling in love. The dialogue is laugh out loud funny and the pop culture references are unexpected and hilarious, but the book really shines because of its warmth and heart. Phoebe's relationships with Sam, her brother Conner, and even a stray cat are enough to make even the most hardened true crime fan tear up."-Kerry Winfrey, author of Very Sincerely Yours
"Smart, clever, and slow-burn steamy, Love in the Time of Serial Killers is a fresh, lovable rom-com that tackles facing our fear of not only the worst life can bring but the very best and being brave enough to take a chance on love."-Chloe Liese, author of The Bergman Brothers series
"Love in the Time of Serial Killers is funny, sharp, and thoughtful."-Sarah Hogle, author of You Deserve Each Other
"It's criminal how much we enjoyed Love in the Time of Serial Killers, the perfect pairing of int...
"A criminally addictive romance. With excellent wry humor, lovably messy characters, and so many heart-squeezing moments, this book is sheer perfection from beginning to end. Phoebe and Sam have a permanent spot on my list of favorite fictional couples."-Rachel Lynn Solomon, New York Times bestselling author of Weather Girl
"Love in the Time of Serial Killers is a smart, sexy, and unique rom-com that I couldn't put down! Phoebe is an immensely relatable and likable character, one whose prickly exterior hides a deep fear of vulnerability. It's a joy to watch her realize that the only thing scarier than a grisly murder is falling in love. The dialogue is laugh out loud funny and the pop culture references are unexpected and hilarious, but the book really shines because of its warmth and heart. Phoebe's relationships with Sam, her brother Conner, and even a stray cat are enough to make even the most hardened true crime fan tear up."-Kerry Winfrey, author of Very Sincerely Yours
"Smart, clever, and slow-burn steamy, Love in the Time of Serial Killers is a fresh, lovable rom-com that tackles facing our fear of not only the worst life can bring but the very best and being brave enough to take a chance on love."-Chloe Liese, author of The Bergman Brothers series
"Love in the Time of Serial Killers is funny, sharp, and thoughtful."-Sarah Hogle, author of You Deserve Each Other
"It's criminal how much we enjoyed Love in the Time of Serial Killers, the perfect pairing of int...
Readers Top Reviews
maya
This book is quite badly written, the protagonist is like a pantomime version of a complex female character, just being rude and unsubtle. Also lame repetition of misogynistic terms of abuse levelled at JK Rowling. Very poor effort and a waste of time and money. I abandoned the book after a few chapters.
lindseydomokurmay
Phoebe is a little neurotic, but it's endearing. She moves back to her dad's house after he passes away to get it ready for sale. She is reunited with her brother, whom she hasn't been close with in years. Ever since "the incident" she didn't spend too much time at her dad's house and stayed with her mother. Her brother chose to stay with her dad and they just seemed to lose touch. Just like she did with most people in this town. She is working on her PhD and has a dissertation to get done, among other things, but wants to make time for her family. She is obsessed with true crime and always has been. Some people find it weird, but that's why she doesn't get close to people. She knows that they will inevitably leave and let you down. So when she runs into her new neighbor at 2 AM, she is convinced he is a serial killer, until she isn't. Phoebe has a lot of baggage to unpack, just as she is packing up her dad's house. As she starts to get closer to the people she left behind, and some new ones, she has to figure out if she is capable of having a lasting relationship and if the problem isn't her, but the ones she trusted long ago. Sam, the non-serial killer neighbor, is such a patient cinnamon roll hero. He is willing to help her through all of life's challenges she needs to navigate and I loved how kind and sweet and silly he was. I also loved her brother and his girlfriend; constantly pushing Phoebe to open up and want more for herself. Alison, the friend she left behind, was also a great side character. Phoebe needed proof that not everyone leaves and you can have love, and these people showed her what she was missing.
Amylindseydomokur
Phoebe Walsh is returning to her childhood home to clean it out and get it ready to sell after her father's death a few months ago. Not only is she in the middle of writing her dissertation on the true crime novel genre she's loved and obsessed over since she was younger, but she's getting to spend some quality bonding time with her younger brother and contending with an intriguing next door neighbor whom she refuses to believe is hiding a body in his garage. Besides all this, staying in her childhood home has opened up a lot of feelings about the past and her complicated relationship with her father and her parent's divorce. I was a little surprised by this book. With the title, I assumed it would maybe be a bit more quirky, but it dealt with many real issues. Many issues that I found myself identifying with Phoebe on in one way or another. Mainly on the complicated feelings, we have towards our parents and the idea of how we interpret our past through the lens of being grown up. It goes hand in hand with Phoebe's dissertation dealing with the idea of an author interpreting or perceiving their subjects in a certain way and that perception coming through in the narrative. It's an interesting thought and, I won't lie, one I'd gladly delve into myself. I just really like seeing Phoebe open herself up to exploring the issues from her past and seeing how she can keep herself from inadvertently repeating the same pattern as her parents. Her relationship with Sam is this in a nutshell. She's never wanted to trust someone else before and seeing Phoebe start to trust Sam is really sweet and rewarding. Getting to that place where she can separate her life from what one might feel is a predisposed notion of carrying on a family trait. It also goes hand in hand with the idea of serial killers having families that have to contend with the secrets kept from them. Alicia Thompson really understood how to make these connections even with a rather bleak and dark topic like serial killers. It's kind of the psychology of it all. I'm really looking forward to what other thoughtful stories Alicia Thompson has for us.
Vicki VoldenAmyli
This book merged two of my favorite genres - true crime and romance in a way that was fresh and fun. I loved reading it and was sorry to finish. Yes, it was that good.
Alejandra Jimenez
Phoebe is seriously my soul sister! I loved the whole thing, I laughed out loud many time! Such a fun read! I could not put it down once I started reading it! I was also very proud I got every single true crime reference. You won’t regret using your “me” time to read this book.
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
Obviously a two-hundred-pound Victorian writing desk wasn't made to be moved all by yourself. But it also hadn't come with those incomprehensible IKEA instructions showing a blocky illustrated guy getting help from a buddy, so. There wasn't anything saying not to try it.
I took a step back, assessing the desk where it was strapped to the roof of my car. It was the only piece of furniture I'd brought with me, and it was a monstrosity. My old landlord in North Carolina had helped me load it onto my car in the first place, and it had been the reason I'd made the drive to Florida in one straight shot, stopping only briefly at rest areas and a Taco Bell in Starke.
If I undid the straps, it was possible the desk would slide right off the car. I had an image of trying to catch it and ending up flattened into a pancake like a cartoon character under a piano. But I could brace it against my body, maybe, ease it to the ground. Then I could penguin-walk it up the driveway to the house.
I turned to survey my dad's old house, which had been sitting empty for the last six months, since he'd died back in January. I guessed it was my and my little brother's house now, technically. But this house hadn't felt like mine since the day my mother and I had moved out when I was thirteen, maybe not since before then.
My brother, Conner, could still be awake, even though my phone screen showed that it was already two in the morning. He'd always been a big gamer, and would stay up all hours trying a level one more time or trying to beat the last boss. But that had been before he and Shani had moved in together, before he'd gotten his first postcollege job at a call center. And anyway, I wasn't going to text him to come help me with something as stupid as a desk.
Conner and I weren't that close. We'd barely grown up together, for one thing-when our parents divorced, he'd chosen to stay with our dad, while I'd gone with our mom. He was also seven years younger, twenty-three to my thirty, although that fact alone couldn't fully explain his optimistic exuberance in contrast to my jaded cynicism. We'd spent time together during holidays and select weekends, of course, but still when I thought of him I mostly remembered the way he would eat ketchup by the bowlful when he was six years old.
I typed how to move heavy furniture by yourself into a search on my phone, and scrolled through the results. Ads for moving companies, an article about how to use moving straps and dollies and other equipment I didn't have, another couple of articles that basically boiled down to don't.
"Need a hand?" a voice came from behind me, and I jumped and gave a little scream. My phone flew out of my hand and hit the pavement with a sickening crack.
I spun around, coming face-to-face with the random dude who'd spoken. He was standing on the sidewalk, a decent distance away from me, but still. He'd come out of nowhere. He had dark, shaggy hair and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that had a huge rip in the collar. When I glanced down, I saw that his feet were bare.
"What the fuck?" I said, as much about the bare feet as about the fact that he'd addressed me at all.
He took a step backward, as if he were scared of me, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "It just seemed . . ."
"Well, it's not," I snapped. I reached down to pick up my phone, which, yup, totally had a cracked screen now. Great. My search results for how to move heavy furniture by yourself glowed brightly through the spiderweb of lines, and I had the irrational thought that he'd totally seen them, that they'd called him here like some sort of Bat-Signal to creepy nocturnal dudes looking to accost isolated women in the suburbs.
And now he knew where I lived. I was tempted to get back in the car, to drive to a local gas station and sit in the parking lot for one full podcast episode, then circle the block a few times before pulling into the driveway again. Although, to be fair, it was probably the podcast episodes that were making me so paranoid in the first place. I could rationally recognize that with one part of my brain while the other part of my brain screamed, This is the exact scenario two post-Evanescence goth podcasters will one day use for their c...
Obviously a two-hundred-pound Victorian writing desk wasn't made to be moved all by yourself. But it also hadn't come with those incomprehensible IKEA instructions showing a blocky illustrated guy getting help from a buddy, so. There wasn't anything saying not to try it.
I took a step back, assessing the desk where it was strapped to the roof of my car. It was the only piece of furniture I'd brought with me, and it was a monstrosity. My old landlord in North Carolina had helped me load it onto my car in the first place, and it had been the reason I'd made the drive to Florida in one straight shot, stopping only briefly at rest areas and a Taco Bell in Starke.
If I undid the straps, it was possible the desk would slide right off the car. I had an image of trying to catch it and ending up flattened into a pancake like a cartoon character under a piano. But I could brace it against my body, maybe, ease it to the ground. Then I could penguin-walk it up the driveway to the house.
I turned to survey my dad's old house, which had been sitting empty for the last six months, since he'd died back in January. I guessed it was my and my little brother's house now, technically. But this house hadn't felt like mine since the day my mother and I had moved out when I was thirteen, maybe not since before then.
My brother, Conner, could still be awake, even though my phone screen showed that it was already two in the morning. He'd always been a big gamer, and would stay up all hours trying a level one more time or trying to beat the last boss. But that had been before he and Shani had moved in together, before he'd gotten his first postcollege job at a call center. And anyway, I wasn't going to text him to come help me with something as stupid as a desk.
Conner and I weren't that close. We'd barely grown up together, for one thing-when our parents divorced, he'd chosen to stay with our dad, while I'd gone with our mom. He was also seven years younger, twenty-three to my thirty, although that fact alone couldn't fully explain his optimistic exuberance in contrast to my jaded cynicism. We'd spent time together during holidays and select weekends, of course, but still when I thought of him I mostly remembered the way he would eat ketchup by the bowlful when he was six years old.
I typed how to move heavy furniture by yourself into a search on my phone, and scrolled through the results. Ads for moving companies, an article about how to use moving straps and dollies and other equipment I didn't have, another couple of articles that basically boiled down to don't.
"Need a hand?" a voice came from behind me, and I jumped and gave a little scream. My phone flew out of my hand and hit the pavement with a sickening crack.
I spun around, coming face-to-face with the random dude who'd spoken. He was standing on the sidewalk, a decent distance away from me, but still. He'd come out of nowhere. He had dark, shaggy hair and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that had a huge rip in the collar. When I glanced down, I saw that his feet were bare.
"What the fuck?" I said, as much about the bare feet as about the fact that he'd addressed me at all.
He took a step backward, as if he were scared of me, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "It just seemed . . ."
"Well, it's not," I snapped. I reached down to pick up my phone, which, yup, totally had a cracked screen now. Great. My search results for how to move heavy furniture by yourself glowed brightly through the spiderweb of lines, and I had the irrational thought that he'd totally seen them, that they'd called him here like some sort of Bat-Signal to creepy nocturnal dudes looking to accost isolated women in the suburbs.
And now he knew where I lived. I was tempted to get back in the car, to drive to a local gas station and sit in the parking lot for one full podcast episode, then circle the block a few times before pulling into the driveway again. Although, to be fair, it was probably the podcast episodes that were making me so paranoid in the first place. I could rationally recognize that with one part of my brain while the other part of my brain screamed, This is the exact scenario two post-Evanescence goth podcasters will one day use for their c...
