I knew who the villain was. I just needed Max to sober up long enough to catch him.
I’ll be honest: Two Cold Killers did not sweep me off my feet in chapter one. It took me half the book (almost) to get fully invested. Max, our resident ex-cop/alcoholic/self-pity expert, spends the early chapters doing emotional laps around the misery track. I get that he’s had a rough go at life, but his “woe is me” with the back of his hand to his forehead routine had me wanting to reach into the pages, slap the whiskey glass out of his hand, and tell him, “Dude. Consequences.”
But then Max started cleaning up his act. Literally. Dumping his whiskey down the drain, avoiding the bar, picking up the wreckage that was his house. And as he sobered up, his brain cells started firing again. Watching his detective instincts resurface was like finally seeing the headlights come on during a long, dark drive. Suddenly, the story had momentum.
I knew who the villain was, absolutely. But the “how” and the “why” kept me reading. I needed to know what connected a corrections officer, two drug dealers, and Max’s own mother. When his mom’s death was officially ruled a homicide, the pieces really started snapping together. Forensics is fascinating.
By the end, Max walks into an AA meeting and finally admits he has a problem. And look, I’m not saying I jumped up and cheered, but I may have nodded approvingly like a proud, slightly exhausted parent at a school assembly. It even made me think about picking up the next book in the series.
But.
Max must stay sober, and the self-pity has got to go. My patience has limits.
