A book so exquisitely tailored to my own tastes, with the added bonus of writing that's just violently good.
I mean. The seedy side of New York punk (which, you know, is actually saying something). Photography as a metaphor and a plot point and descriptions of which make my eyes ache to see these photos that don't exist. Creepy small town Maine. Almost noir-y mystery, with Adderall and crystal meth in addition to the hard-drinking whiskey. A mystery that sneaks up on you, that hits so many of the genre notes but only in retrospect, because you're too wrapped up in the messy sprawl of a heroine. Sex and sexuality as a matter of course. Creepy, horrific violence that is not about the fetishization of dead women. The merest whiff of fantasy/supernatural which adds to the story but is not necessary to explain the plot. Women, many women, being deeply, profoundly fucked up, without moralizing about their fucked uppedness.
And that's just the story. There's also what the author does with words, the way she slides them between your ribs like a knife, leaving you bleeding and delighted at the same time.