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It amuses me the fact that every person I've spoken to told me to not choose this one as the first book by Donna Tartt I read.
And they were right.

I should probably start with the most important question: who killed Robin? Because I thought, after all these pages of nothing, she could at least give us an answer about that. And this is what I'm mad about, to be clear.
There's no other way to put it: there's too much in here. Not just about the past, about all the tiny relations between the Cleves, the Ratliffs and whoever you can mention, but about everything: the weather, the houses, the gardens, the jobs; I don't need to know why she sneezes during allergies season in spring when it's August, no one needs to know!
But even if summarizing is definitely not in Donna Tartt’s vocabulary, I kept going because of the truth about Robin’s death. I kept going because I thought that maybe she’d have made a big revelation in the end.

Despite my frustration, and my poor judgment of the author at the moment, I can't say that this book is badly written because is, in fact, not.
I like how she includes the past in a conversation that is happening right now, how she builds suspense little by little, and how she says things about the future when you least expect that.

After this one, I honestly don't know what to expect from her other works.
What I do know is that I'll wait to read them because deep down I know she deserves better than this from me, but this is all I can give for now.

�� 2 stars