Thrillers & Suspense
![Rob Hart - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_rob_hart.jpg)
The Paradox Hotel: A Novel
"Time travel, murder, corruption, restless baby dinosaurs, and a snarky robot named Ruby collide in this excellent, noir-inflected, humor-infused, science-fiction thriller."-The Boston Globe
An impossible crime. A detective on the edge of madness. The future of time travel at stake. From the author of The Warehouse . . .
ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: NPR, Kirkus Reviews
January Cole's job just got a whole lot harder.
Not that running security at the Paradox was ever really easy. Nothing's simple at a hotel where the ultra-wealthy tourists arrive costumed for a dozen different time periods, all eagerly waiting to catch their "flights" to the past.
Or where proximity to the timeport makes the clocks run backward on occasion-and, rumor has it, allows ghosts to stroll the halls.
None of that compares to the corpse in room 526. The one that seems to be both there and not there. The one that somehow only January can see.
On top of that, some very important new guests have just checked in. Because the U.S. government is about to privatize time-travel technology-and the world's most powerful people are on hand to stake their claims.
January is sure the timing isn't a coincidence. Neither are those "accidents" that start stalking their bidders.
There's a reason January can glimpse what others can't. A reason why she's the only one who can catch a killer who's operating invisibly and in plain sight, all at once.
But her ability is also destroying her grip on reality-and as her past, present, and future collide, she finds herself confronting not just the hotel's dark secrets but her own.
At once a dazzlingly time-twisting murder mystery and a story about grief, memory, and what it means to-literally-come face-to-face with our ghosts, The Paradox Hotel is another unforgettable speculative thrill ride from acclaimed author Rob Hart.
An impossible crime. A detective on the edge of madness. The future of time travel at stake. From the author of The Warehouse . . .
ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: NPR, Kirkus Reviews
January Cole's job just got a whole lot harder.
Not that running security at the Paradox was ever really easy. Nothing's simple at a hotel where the ultra-wealthy tourists arrive costumed for a dozen different time periods, all eagerly waiting to catch their "flights" to the past.
Or where proximity to the timeport makes the clocks run backward on occasion-and, rumor has it, allows ghosts to stroll the halls.
None of that compares to the corpse in room 526. The one that seems to be both there and not there. The one that somehow only January can see.
On top of that, some very important new guests have just checked in. Because the U.S. government is about to privatize time-travel technology-and the world's most powerful people are on hand to stake their claims.
January is sure the timing isn't a coincidence. Neither are those "accidents" that start stalking their bidders.
There's a reason January can glimpse what others can't. A reason why she's the only one who can catch a killer who's operating invisibly and in plain sight, all at once.
But her ability is also destroying her grip on reality-and as her past, present, and future collide, she finds herself confronting not just the hotel's dark secrets but her own.
At once a dazzlingly time-twisting murder mystery and a story about grief, memory, and what it means to-literally-come face-to-face with our ghosts, The Paradox Hotel is another unforgettable speculative thrill ride from acclaimed author Rob Hart.
Editorial Reviews
"Smashes together some of the best elements of science fiction and crime to deliver a story in which time is broken . . . As funny and entertaining as it is dark and complex. [A] wildly entertaining combination, along with Hart's relentless pacing, make this a rare hybrid that has something for everyone."-NPR
"Entrancing in its pull right from the start . . . Science fiction mixed with the aching pangs of loss and romance will pull the reader towards January Cole's side and bring them along for a thrill ride."-San Francisco Book Review
"[A] tale of death and destruction down the timelanes . . . [Hart advances] his detective-pursuing-a-master-criminal plot neatly and suspensefully and satisfyingly, moving from one new surprising clue to another."-Locus
"Electric . . . a tense, taut cinematic kick to the teeth."-Chuck Wendig, New York Times bestselling author of Wanderers
"Wildly inventive and endlessly entertaining . . . the time-twisting, sci-fi, noir-tinged mystery with heart I never knew I needed in my life."-Riley Sager, New York Times bestselling author of Survive the Night
"A tricky and trippy mystery that keeps the reader guessing and thinking well past the very last page."-Wesley Chu, New York Times bestselling co-author of The Red Scrolls of Magic
"Wonderfully twisty, smart, and funny and, ultimately, heartbreaking . . . Hart continues to flex his muscles as one of crime's best world builders."-Rachel Howzell Hall, New York Times bestselling author of These Toxic Things
"The perfect intersection of noir mystery, brilliant sci-fi, and haunted-house chills."-Peter Clines, New York Times
"Entrancing in its pull right from the start . . . Science fiction mixed with the aching pangs of loss and romance will pull the reader towards January Cole's side and bring them along for a thrill ride."-San Francisco Book Review
"[A] tale of death and destruction down the timelanes . . . [Hart advances] his detective-pursuing-a-master-criminal plot neatly and suspensefully and satisfyingly, moving from one new surprising clue to another."-Locus
"Electric . . . a tense, taut cinematic kick to the teeth."-Chuck Wendig, New York Times bestselling author of Wanderers
"Wildly inventive and endlessly entertaining . . . the time-twisting, sci-fi, noir-tinged mystery with heart I never knew I needed in my life."-Riley Sager, New York Times bestselling author of Survive the Night
"A tricky and trippy mystery that keeps the reader guessing and thinking well past the very last page."-Wesley Chu, New York Times bestselling co-author of The Red Scrolls of Magic
"Wonderfully twisty, smart, and funny and, ultimately, heartbreaking . . . Hart continues to flex his muscles as one of crime's best world builders."-Rachel Howzell Hall, New York Times bestselling author of These Toxic Things
"The perfect intersection of noir mystery, brilliant sci-fi, and haunted-house chills."-Peter Clines, New York Times
Readers Top Reviews
JayTheresa Elis
I love this author and I loved “Warehouse.” Paradox Hotel would make a great movie but was not such a great book. Constantly re reading to clear up confusion. Lack of character development was a major issue. This could have been a great book. Not giving up on the author just yet. Very talented but not his best work.
Not your father’s time travel novel…..more of a treatise on why we do the seemingly crazy things that we do as human beings. Don’t miss this one!
Sebastian Mudry
Great character development and a thoughtful, complex, plot line. The protagonist is a marvel of perfect imperfections, flaws which serve her & humanity in a future where time travel is possible - but is it desirable, & will this benefit or destroy us? A wondrous ending, one with profound philosophical implications. (Pronouns are too PC for me, but sensitive to contemporary battle lines.) A damn good read . . .
L. GiesSebastian
Enjoyed the ideas and the spiritual insights. Fun adventure. Enjoyable read.
readinginmagnolia
This story is told in first person by January who runs security at a time travel hotel but has developed a time travel related illness. While her doctor thinks it’s past time to retire, January doesn’t want to leave the hotel since her symptom related timeslips allow her to be with her lost love, slipping through the memories of their relationship, which took place in the hotel. She’s afraid that if she leaves, those memories will be left behind. I usually don’t care much for unreliable narrators, but I was fascinated with January’s timeslips and trying to figure out what was memory, present and/or hallucination. I enjoyed the supporting characters and especially loved Ruby, an AI personal assistant that accompanies January during her shifts. Their snarky relationship gave January’s personality a spark. I still had questions after the end but that didn’t detract from my love for the book. Recommended to Andy Weir and Blake Crouch fans.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Quantum Entrapment
Droplets of blood pat the blue carpet, turning from red to black as they soak into the fibers. The drops come slow at first, before turning to a trickle as the bones of my skull squeeze like a hand around my brain. My body yearns to release the tension in my shoulders, to let the pressure off my knees, to lay down and go to sleep.
Except it won't be sleep.
It won't really be death either. Something more in-between.
A permanent vacancy.
This moment has been chasing me for years. The third stage, when the strands of my perception unravel and my ability to grasp the concept of linear time is lost.
More pats on the carpet. But the blood from my nose has stopped flowing.
Heavier, from the other end of the hallway, getting closer. Footsteps.
Maybe I can fight this. A handful of Retronim. A cherry lollipop. What if I scream? I open my mouth. Nothing comes out but blood.
The footsteps get closer.
This is the moment when my brain will short-circuit. That's the third stage of being Unstuck. No one really knows why it happens. The prevailing theory is your mind finds itself in a quantum state and can't handle the load. Others think you witness the moment of your death. I don't give a shit about the "why" of it. I just know the result doesn't look pleasant: a glassy-eyed coma that'll last as long as my body holds out.
The pressure increases. More blood. Maybe I'll bleed to death first. Small victories.
In a moment I'll be gone. Probably reality too. The timestream is broken and I'm the only one who can fix it, but instead I'm dying on the floor. Sorry, universe.
I slip again, memories rattling around my brain like rocks in a tin can. Sitting in my bed, the smell of garlic and chili paste frying in the kitchen, wafting upstairs. Graduating the academy, walking across the gymnasium stage, new heels tearing at the skin of my feet while I scan the sea of folding chairs.
The first time I let Mena kiss me, the two of us alone on the balcony overlooking the lobby.
That taste of cherries, and everything I ever needed.
The footsteps stop.
I feel it, the displacement of air, the gravity of another person, standing there, watching me writhe on this dumb blue carpet. Nothing I can do now. It's over. But I'm not going to die on my hands and knees.
With the last of my strength I push up . . .
Tap-tap-tap.
Doctor Tamworth is holding his pen an inch above the flat expanse of his desk, looking at me like I might bite him. Which, the day is young.
I take a second to situate myself. The fluorescent light is so white it's almost blue, to match the sky-blue walls and dark blue linoleum tile. So much of this place is blue, which is calming, or so I've been told. The room is otherwise bare, save a small tablet on the desk, a diploma on the wall from a university in his home country of Bangladesh, and a half-eaten deli sandwich in a cardboard clamshell container. I can smell the sting of the vinegar, the funk of the cheese. My stomach growls at it. Ruby is hovering in its usual spot over my shoulder, too close by half.
"Where were you just now, January?" Tamworth asks.
"Right here, Doc," I tell him, which is only mostly a lie, because the place I slipped to is gone. Something about carpet? I reach for it, but it disappears between my fingers like smoke. Probably not important.
"It didn't look like you were here," Tamworth says, his voice an airy, nasal pitch that seems determined to match the creak of his desk chair. "It looked like you were somewhere else."
"Your word against mine."
Tamworth sighs. "No behavioral changes. That's a start."
He heaves his blocky frame to a standing position and turns to the
cabinet. The rattle of the pill bottle lifts my soul. He places the orange tube of Retronim on the desk, just next to the sandwich.
"I'm increasing your dose," he says. "Ten milligrams. One pill in the morning, one at night. If you're slipping a lot you can take a third, but no more than that in a twenty-four-hour period. Your weight." He raises his hand, spreads his fingers, waves them back and forth. "Figure by the time we get to twenty milligrams in a day, there might be a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
Tamworth slumps in his chair. "Aggression, irritability . . ."
"I must be OD'ing right now."
He frowns. "Heart palpitations, confusion, hallucinations. Not to mention your kidneys won't be too happy."
"Got it," I tell him, nearly snatching the sandwich, but instead palming the bottle and stuf...
Droplets of blood pat the blue carpet, turning from red to black as they soak into the fibers. The drops come slow at first, before turning to a trickle as the bones of my skull squeeze like a hand around my brain. My body yearns to release the tension in my shoulders, to let the pressure off my knees, to lay down and go to sleep.
Except it won't be sleep.
It won't really be death either. Something more in-between.
A permanent vacancy.
This moment has been chasing me for years. The third stage, when the strands of my perception unravel and my ability to grasp the concept of linear time is lost.
More pats on the carpet. But the blood from my nose has stopped flowing.
Heavier, from the other end of the hallway, getting closer. Footsteps.
Maybe I can fight this. A handful of Retronim. A cherry lollipop. What if I scream? I open my mouth. Nothing comes out but blood.
The footsteps get closer.
This is the moment when my brain will short-circuit. That's the third stage of being Unstuck. No one really knows why it happens. The prevailing theory is your mind finds itself in a quantum state and can't handle the load. Others think you witness the moment of your death. I don't give a shit about the "why" of it. I just know the result doesn't look pleasant: a glassy-eyed coma that'll last as long as my body holds out.
The pressure increases. More blood. Maybe I'll bleed to death first. Small victories.
In a moment I'll be gone. Probably reality too. The timestream is broken and I'm the only one who can fix it, but instead I'm dying on the floor. Sorry, universe.
I slip again, memories rattling around my brain like rocks in a tin can. Sitting in my bed, the smell of garlic and chili paste frying in the kitchen, wafting upstairs. Graduating the academy, walking across the gymnasium stage, new heels tearing at the skin of my feet while I scan the sea of folding chairs.
The first time I let Mena kiss me, the two of us alone on the balcony overlooking the lobby.
That taste of cherries, and everything I ever needed.
The footsteps stop.
I feel it, the displacement of air, the gravity of another person, standing there, watching me writhe on this dumb blue carpet. Nothing I can do now. It's over. But I'm not going to die on my hands and knees.
With the last of my strength I push up . . .
Tap-tap-tap.
Doctor Tamworth is holding his pen an inch above the flat expanse of his desk, looking at me like I might bite him. Which, the day is young.
I take a second to situate myself. The fluorescent light is so white it's almost blue, to match the sky-blue walls and dark blue linoleum tile. So much of this place is blue, which is calming, or so I've been told. The room is otherwise bare, save a small tablet on the desk, a diploma on the wall from a university in his home country of Bangladesh, and a half-eaten deli sandwich in a cardboard clamshell container. I can smell the sting of the vinegar, the funk of the cheese. My stomach growls at it. Ruby is hovering in its usual spot over my shoulder, too close by half.
"Where were you just now, January?" Tamworth asks.
"Right here, Doc," I tell him, which is only mostly a lie, because the place I slipped to is gone. Something about carpet? I reach for it, but it disappears between my fingers like smoke. Probably not important.
"It didn't look like you were here," Tamworth says, his voice an airy, nasal pitch that seems determined to match the creak of his desk chair. "It looked like you were somewhere else."
"Your word against mine."
Tamworth sighs. "No behavioral changes. That's a start."
He heaves his blocky frame to a standing position and turns to the
cabinet. The rattle of the pill bottle lifts my soul. He places the orange tube of Retronim on the desk, just next to the sandwich.
"I'm increasing your dose," he says. "Ten milligrams. One pill in the morning, one at night. If you're slipping a lot you can take a third, but no more than that in a twenty-four-hour period. Your weight." He raises his hand, spreads his fingers, waves them back and forth. "Figure by the time we get to twenty milligrams in a day, there might be a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
Tamworth slumps in his chair. "Aggression, irritability . . ."
"I must be OD'ing right now."
He frowns. "Heart palpitations, confusion, hallucinations. Not to mention your kidneys won't be too happy."
"Got it," I tell him, nearly snatching the sandwich, but instead palming the bottle and stuf...
