Jade Crawford is out here running the world’s messiest metaphysical hustle, and honestly? Respect the grind, babe. She’s slinging tarot cards with the same energy as a 7-year-old playing “store,” and her ghostly séances come with a side of smoke machine and sibling sabotage. I mean, it’s all fake, but at least it’s organized fake. Jade’s not really in touch with the dead, unless we count her social life, which basically flatlined somewhere between shoplifting her own customers and dodging the trauma ghosts of her jailbird dad.
Then boom. A local politician goes missing, Jade tosses a totally fake psychic “vision” at the police tip line like she’s spinning a bottle, and guess what? Her wild guess turns out to be murder-scene accurate. Suddenly the girl who couldn’t even predict a Starbucks line is psychic famous. But fame, much like rent in Winston-Salem, comes with consequences, like nosy cops, shady men in hoodies, and actual murderers who really don’t appreciate being outed by someone with an Etsy crystal shop and a fog machine.
Look, the premise had me cackling with delight. Grifter girlies, sister drama, fake psychics catching real murder vibes? Inject that chaos straight into my veins. And The Tarot Reader delivers on the vibes. It’s got that fall energy, crunchy leaves, dead bodies, and familial dysfunction wrapped in a velvet scarf.
But... it also runs into the classic con-artist problem: the more lies we stack, the messier it gets, and suddenly you’re thirty chapters deep yelling, “Girl, why would you do that?!” like it’s a drinking game and you’re already tipsy. Jade makes so many unhinged decisions I started wondering if she was cursed, because no sober brain would go that hard for clout.
The real heart here is the sister dynamic. Stevie is the ride-or-die younger sibling with actual human instincts, and if anyone deserved a tarot card spread titled “Please Escape This Plot,” it was her. She brings the emotional depth that Jade steamrolls over like a “Psychic Visions 50% Off” sign. Their trauma backstory? Painfully real. The generational scammer lineage? Delicious. But Jade keeps spinning like a ferris wheel of chaos while Stevie is just trying to survive the carnival.
Narration-wise? Sarah Beth Pfeifer came to work. Her performance keeps the pace snappy and the characters distinct, no easy feat when the sisters sound like they were raised in the same grift-soaked pressure cooker. Pfeifer adds just enough tension to keep the thriller vibes buzzing, and she nails that southern-not-sweet tone that says, “I’ll talk to spirits but also stab you with a hairpin if needed.”
Still, we need to talk about the ending. It’s like the story was sprinting a marathon and then tripped face-first into a brick wall labeled “Rushed Resolution.” The last 20% is a grab bag of reveals, red herrings, and emotional whiplash. I didn’t want a perfect bow, but I did want a plot twist that didn’t feel like it came out of a Mad Libs crime generator.
Final take: solid premise, excellent narration, emotionally rich sibling arc, but the plot gets tangled in its own web and then shrugs like, “Well, anyway!” A strong three-star read for thriller girlies who love messy women and morally gray chaos with a shot of sass.
Whodunity Award: For Making Me Side-Eye a Pothole, Accuse a Therapy Dog, and Whisper “It’s Giving Murderer” at a Houseplant
Thanks to Dreamscape Media and NetGalley for the early audiobook. And for giving me yet another reason to never trust a woman with a ring light and a crystal ball she bought on Etsy.