Kill For Me Kill For You
Steve Cavanagh’s Kill For Me, Kill For You takes its cues from Strangers on a Train, whose premise has inspired works from the gripping (Confessions on the 7:45 by Lisa Unger) to the banal (Throw Momma from the Train). Cavanagh’s take lands firmly in the latter camp. If you’re considering reading this book, do yourself a favor—watch the Hitchcock film instead. Robert Walker’s chilling charm outclasses anything you’ll find in these pages.
The novel opens with Amanda, a grieving mother grappling with the brutal murder of her six-year-old daughter and subsequent suicide of her husband. She knows who did it but can’t prove it–the scumbag who tossed her child’s body into a dumpster is the son of a billionaire banker and has the sort of lawyers who make sure even the guiltiest among us walk free. One night, when Amanda attends a support group for those whose loved ones have been murdered, she meets Wendy. Wendy is a nightmare but Amanda is drawn to her and the two become instant besties. Soon, the two have struck a deal: Kill for me, and I’ll kill for you.
There’s a third disaster of a woman–all three are serious smokers–named Ruth. In chapter two, Ruth survives a brutal home invasion by a man with piercing blue eyes and a creepy voice. Although her body heals, her mind does not–she sees her murderer everywhere and the fear that he will come for her again limits her every moment.
Both cases land on the desk of Detective Farrow, a man with a bad back and an obsession with closing cases—his colleagues, with no small amount of irony, call him Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. Farrow is sure there’s something odd about a set of murders that have plagued the city but he’s just not sure what’s going on.
Neither is the reader. The novel–337 pages long–plods along as Amanda and Ruth work out their pain and bad things happen about the city. Amanda fixates on avenging her daughter’s death, while Ruth spirals into paranoia, convinced her attacker is lurking around every corner. Their connection remains murky until page 259, when Cavanagh finally drops a clue meant to upend everything. Instead, it’s a dud, a withheld piece of info that changes all that’s come before.
It’s not just the plot that disappoints. The writing is stiff, the pacing clunky, and the American setting riddled with errors—Cavanagh’s Irish roots show in awkward ways, from clumsy dialogue to factual inaccuracies about New York City and U.S. culture.
The last 80 pages of the novel offer a giant twist that makes no sense and, even worse, offers brutal violence in lieu of any kind of justice. The epilogue is bizarre. Believe me when I tell you, I couldn’t WAIT to finish this book.
Cavanaugh is the author of the acclaimed Eddie Flynn books which, I confess, I’ve not read. I’m going to assume they’re much better than this.