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Bold. Unrelenting. All-consuming. Creepy. Unputdownable.

What I’ve come to appreciate most about Colleen Hoover’s work—whether it’s an emotionally charged love story or in this case, her first go at suspense—is her penchant for pushing boundaries. For telling the unexpected story.

“It’s got bad things in it. Bad words, bad people, bad scenes.��

Hoover preempted Verity’s release with a warning of sorts—although facetious and comical in delivery, it’s something sensitive readers should take to heart. This storyline is dark, and the lives of the characters that inhabit the pages are far from perfect—so, don’t kid yourself into thinking this is something it’s not. Verity is horrifying, maddening, and what-the-hell-inducing, but it’s also sustenance for that bibliophile looking to satisfy a craving for something different.

From chapter one, it’s blatantly obvious this comes from an entirely different side of Hoover’s psyche than her typical love stories. Blood spatter accompanies the all-consuming, addictive quality of her words. Storytelling with the power to crawl inside of your mind, take over, and demand your undivided attention.

Lowen’s life is literally in shambles—her mom just passed, she’s broke, on the brink of eviction and even though she’s a talented author, the crippling anxiety involved with marketing herself to fans has made her work less than popular.

It’s the opportunity of a lifetime that uproots Lowen from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan to the quiet Vermont countryside. Contracted by a publisher to ghostwrite the three remaining books in an uber-popular series after the author was involved in an accident, Lowen has a ton of work ahead. Research lands her in Verity Crawford’s home office, looking for anything that might indicate the direction the author wanted to take the series. Instead, she finds herself caught-up in Verity’s life. Living in her home, sleeping in her bed, and spending time with Verity's husband, Jeremy, and their young son. Inescapable is the grief and pain marring it all.

Most surprising was the level of creepiness Hoover managed to incite. A level even some seasoned suspense writers fail to attain. From someone who reads in the genre consistently and watches horror, it’s quite the feat for me to feel this level of anxiety. For my stomach to be twisted in knots, in anticipation of what’s to come—but, it happened.

And that finale . . . stunning. I was so sure I’d pinpointed exactly what was happening and why, but I was wrong. So very wrong.

Hoover mentions in her Acknowledgements that this was an indie project she wanted to branch out and write on her own, which is commendable and exciting when you think about where her inner drive might take readers next. While there’s no denying her love stories are fierce, my hope is for more suspense. To be this taken with her first try, I can only imagine what that mind of hers might dream up next.