I picked up Emma Flint's Little Deaths at Book Expo last year and have been very excited to read it. Then the publish date came and went and I lost track of time. I picked it up last week and boy, was I glad I did.
Ruth Malone is a soon-to-be divorcee in Queens in 1965 when she wakes up one morning to find both of her children missing from their beds. She had locked them in that night -- where could they have gone? Hours later her young son's body is found, and days later her daughter's as well. Ruth is the obvious suspect; after all, what right does a young mother have to drink that much, wear such tight skirts, and flirt with men the way she does? Pete Wonike is a two bit journalist who picks up the scent of the case and will stop at nothing to prove that Ruth is innocent. The problem is -- he is the only one who truly believes that.
This novel is of a true case from the time period, and while I'm blanking on the exact name, a quick search could easily bring it up. I was impressed with the prose of this novel and the ease with which the story flowers from Flint's fingers to my eyes. There was something thick about this, like a strong, rich homemade pudding. Nothing light and fluffy about it, and every bite savor rd for the deliciousness that you know you can't repeat in your own kitchen. It was really an astounding story told for readers who love language and depth in their stories.
I loved the side story of the reporter, Pete, which added dimension to the story so that it was so much more than a whodunit. The ending will surprise you, even if you do suspect it just a little. The callous nature of the truth was shocking in a way that is hard to describe, but well worth your time to discover.