At the end of this collection of stories, the reader is left with a deep, unsettling ambivalence. On the one hand, Grisham wields a sense of place and of language with a confidence that’s hard to beat. He places his characters in memorable, finely wrought settings, he gives them richly evoked material to work with, he writes dialogue that has the ring of truth to it. And then he observes those characters, as they move, live, and (mostly) suffer, with a chilly, anthropological detachment and emotional distance that’s initially distracting and, by the end of the book, has become nearly an embarrassment. At every moment, Grisham seems intent on reminding the reader that he’s not “one of them”; he writes with a sense of social distance that would probably raise eyebrows if his subjects were some other ethnic or regional group and not (largely) white southerners. In short, Grisham observes: He’s quite a good observer, as it turns out, but as a writer he’s simply not implicated. Grisham also has the bad habit of creating intriguing plots, compelling characters, and seductive settings—and then ending every story with a whimper. A few are very nearly shaggy dog stories: a complicated set up for an unsatisfying pay-off. Since he does it in every story, it’s clearly a style he has adopted deliberately. No doubt some readers won’t be troubled by the clinical cast of Grisham’s narratives and will appreciate his way of picking up a story, carrying it for a while, and then setting it down again without having handled it much. For me, the lack of empathy and the absence of resolution were equally discomfiting.