Two and a half years after ‘The Night I Died’. Olivia is now working in a bar in the middle of nowhere, thinking she will stay there until her husband and daughter need her. This would be the same husband and daughter who think she has died.
Enter Alasdair “Father Love” Smith, a cult leader so unnervingly charismatic that it’s easy to understand how he amassed followers by the millions. He’s not just a villain in the traditional sense; he’s a reminder that manipulation stems from magnetism. When he targets Olivia, blaming her for the carnage at his compound, which took his wife and children, the stakes take on a sinister tone.
Frasier doesn’t throw her punches early. Instead, she plants quiet, seemingly unremarkable details that bloom into pivotal revelations. Those moments where the mundane becomes meaningful, hit with precision. You’re suddenly questioning everything -- who to trust, what’s real, whether Olivia herself is telling the whole story, and whether she can make it to the end.
But even as the plot becomes more demanding, what stood out most was the novel’s soul. At its core, this is a character-driven story. Horrific things happen, but it’s the people who carry you through. Olivia’s complexity and her fractured strength are compelling. Calliope might be too witty for a three-year-old, but her sass adds the emotional break you need. Will and Finn, each vying for Olivia, offer emotional tension grounded in sincerity. And Griffin... dear sweet Griffin, will quietly break your heart.
Frasier also slips in something unexpected: insight into the anatomy of cults. Not a deep dive, but just enough to make you pause. To wonder. To realize how charisma and planted ideas can shape and warp followers.
I often wonder why more readers aren’t talking about Anne Frasier. Her stories thread together suspense, nuance, and the kind of emotion that lingers. She has a devoted fan base, but her name deserves more recognition on the thriller aisle.