Lorrie Moore's fourth novel, I Am Homeless if This Is Not My Home, is a wry, shape-shifting meditation on how we might continue to commune with the dead.

In late October 2016, Finn has been suspended from his high school history teaching job "for his wanderings away from the curriculum." Given his willingness to entertain conspiracy theories about the moon landing and prominent political assassinations, the disciplinary action is hardly a surprise. The timing is fortuitous, at least, in that it allows Finn to drive from Tennessee to New York to visit his brother, Max, who has pancreatic cancer and is now confined to a Bronx hospice. Max is too weak to speak much, but he hasn't lost his mental capacity or his quick wit.

Finn departs "the bardo of the hospice" only to journey further into death when the news comes that his ex-girlfriend, Lily, who had long suffered from depression, has died by suicide. Moore (See What Can Be Done) typically sticks to realism, so readers may be surprised by the magical turn she takes at this point, as Finn picks up Lily from the cemetery and embarks on a surreal road trip. The couple's banter is delightful, but there's no getting beyond the apparent fact that Finn is conversing with--and making love to--a corpse. Is this really happening, or is it an allegory?

Both playful and poignant, this story bears Moore's trademark psychological depth and humor. She takes a risk with the plot, but this novel should appeal to fans of Lincoln in the Bardo. --Rebecca Foster, freelance reviewer, proofreader, and blogger at Bookish Beck

Decolonization's effect on Morocco is the subject of Watch Us Dance, the heartfelt second installment of a planned trilogy based on author Leïla Slimani's family. The first volume, In the Country of Others, spanned the mid-1940s to mid-1950s. This novel, starting in 1968, revisits the Belhaj family when Morocco is no longer a protectorate of France. Amine, the native-born patriarch, has grown rich from his farm and is asked to join the Rotary Club, where "bourgeois Moroccans mingled with members of the European community" and acted as if "colonization had never been anything more than a misunderstanding." French-born wife Mathilde, meanwhile, suspects him of cheating and gets revenge by skimming off some of the farm's earnings for herself, "a reward for her sacrifices."

Slimani (Sex and Lies; Adèle) seamlessly shifts perspectives among the four family members, each perspective captivating in its own way, to show the strains on the couple's marriage and the developments in their children's lives, from daughter Aïcha--who studies medicine in Strasbourg and falls in love with Mehdi, an economics major who dislikes white people yet "had only one ambition in life: to become like them"--to son Selim, who disappears when he takes up with a group of hippies. If Watch Us Dance, translated from the French by Sam Taylor, doesn't have the dramatic sparkle of its predecessor, it offers a powerful portrait of a country and family in transition and characters bombarded by prejudice, as when a haughty stylist says to Aïcha, "We don't usually do this kind of hair." In countries, as within families, transitions are never easy. --Michael Magras, freelance book reviewer

Jessie Gaynor's first novel, The Glow, proves just how far people will go to make their skin luminous. Jane Dorner, a young publicist, stumbles upon the FortPath wellness retreat (while trying to save her job) and decides the extraordinarily beautiful woman on its website will be her next big client. Tom, FortPath's co-owner, greets Jane as she steps out of the cab for her comped weekend stay at the farm. But she's really there for Cass. Cass, Tom's wife and the face of FortPath, is both the most beautiful woman Jane has ever seen and the most enigmatic. Living mostly off zucchini, bee pollen, and daily meditation, Cass captivates Jane with her radiance, especially the glow of her skin. Becoming somewhat obsessed with her new--and ever so slightly cultish--wellness community, Jane is determined to capitalize off whatever it is that Cass is selling. But Tom is hesitant about Jane's business advances.

Perpetually entertaining and captivatingly funny, The Glow is a deep dive into what makes the wellness industry so fascinating. Jane's struggles with debt, uncertainty, and morality pack her inner musings with wit. Cass, on the other hand, answers all of life's questions with a natural remedy or an Instagrammable inspirational quote. Gaynor's debut is successfully charming and satirical--and utterly delightful. But it also interrogates the question: Is a lifetime subscription to the health-and-wellness lifestyle sustainable, or just a product to sell to women who will do anything to obtain the glowing complexions of their dreams? --Clara Newton, freelance reviewer

Fiction writer, screenwriter, and memoirist Chris Offutt (Shifty's Boys; Country Dark) delivers Code of the Hills, the excellent third installment in his Mick Hardin series of crime and punishment set in Kentucky's Appalachian hills. Hardin has returned home to eastern Kentucky for a brief visit after his discharge from the army. A soldier and military criminal investigator for 20 years, he, like many of his comrades, struggles to imagine a future outside the rhythms, rewards, and confines of military life. But with a flight soon to take him for an extended stay in France, these questions are on hold for the time being. Then Hardin's sister, the county sheriff, is shot and badly wounded while investigating the murder of a local mechanic. Hardin, compelled to investigate, uncovers decades-long, interconnected local family feuds and small-time criminals running rackets in the hills and beyond. In the process, he deploys targeted violence, extralegal techniques, and his refined local bravado to uncover truths that challenge conventional definitions of justice.

In this third installment, Offutt once again demonstrates his command of the detective form, delivering well-plotted satisfactions that still spurn cliché. His prose expertly conveys a blend of child-like wonder at the ragged beauties of the Appalachian hills with deep pessimism over humanity's awful capacities. Less about elaborate conspiracies or a fathomless underworld, Code of the Hills puts the naïve intimacies, pathetic pettiness, and moral dilemmas of its subjects under the microscope. The conclusion is quiet but startling, with an emotional weight belying its calm surface. --Walker Minot, writer and editor

Tracey Buchanan's first novel, Toward the Corner of Mercy and Peace, combines humor, inspiration, and small-town quirk in a story of healing and forgiveness. In 1950s Paducah, Ky., 52-year-old widow Minerva Place teaches piano lessons, hangs around the local cemetery, and worries she might be losing her mind. Her research into the lives of the people interred in the graveyard has taken a strange turn--her deceased subjects sometimes appear and speak to her. These possible ghosts or possible hallucinations aren't the only ones haunting her. Young widower Robert McAlpin has just moved into town with his son, George, and the child can't seem to leave Minerva alone, despite her distinct veneer of unfriendliness. In a moment of weakness, she agrees to give the child piano lessons, even though he is too young, too unruly, and, worst of all, a boy. "[B]oys were unreliable, messy, and often uncooperative," according to Minerva. An unlikely friendship blossoms among the prickly widow, the headstrong boy, and his young father. Then a sudden tragedy threatens Minerva's newfound happiness, causing her to reflect on the pain of her past, the secrets of the buried, and the power of grace and forgiveness.

Minerva is a delightful cactus of a protagonist, her cantankerous, judgmental exterior hiding her vulnerability and the emotional scars left by her upbringing and marriage. Interstitial monologues to Minerva from her departed research subjects give life and color to Paducah. This folksy portrait of a quintessential American hometown charms. --Jaclyn Fulwood, blogger at Infinite Reads

Riley Sager (Lock Every Door; Final Girls) furthers his reputation for innovative, highly original plots in The Only One Left, his seventh novel. Evoking Shirley Jackson's classic We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Sager invigorates the timeless creepy-mansion trope, melding the gothic novel with a clever thriller that delves into the debilitating effects of rumors, legends, and presumption of guilt. The Only One Left, set in Maine during 1983, introduces home-health aide Kit McDeere, fired after her previous patient died. Kit, broke and living with her father who ignores her, reluctantly becomes caregiver for the paralyzed 71-year-old Lenora Hope, who lives in the mansion Hope's End, "a marvel of Gilded Age excess" high on a perilous cliff. When she was 17 years old, Lenora was the only survivor of an attack in which her parents and sister were murdered. Lenora was the logical suspect, but police lacked evidence. She has been a recluse for decades, living with a few servants, and the subject of vandalized walls and a cruel schoolyard rhyme. Kit connects with Lenora, but comes to believe her patient is guilty.

The Only One Left unfolds at a pitch-perfect pace, at once both leisurely and brisk, as Kit learns more about the murders and Lenora. Sager accelerates the spooky factor: the more Kit delves into the past, the more the mansion seems to rebel, as if expelling its secrets and crumbling along with the cliff. Each unexpected twist enhances The Only One Left. --Oline H. Cogdill, freelance reviewer

Among the choicest settings for a mystery novel is surely Hollywood, a world that traffics in and profits from deception and illusion. With its glamorous cast and frequently opulent milieus, Craig Russell's The Devil's Playground is a lavish production of the golden age of Hollywood, albeit one featuring a glitter-free leading lady with a crime to solve--or at least clean up.

Mary Rourke is no starlet: she's a middle-aged fixer for Carbine International Pictures, which hasn't quite wrapped shooting The Devil's Playground when she's informed that its female lead, Norma Carlton, has been found dead in bed. As Mary surreptitiously questions people in Norma's orbit, others involved with the production suffer mishaps and worse. Mary becomes half convinced that the film, which is being promoted as "the greatest horror movie ever made," is, as everyone's saying, cursed.

Mary's story, which unfolds in 1927, is threaded with chapters set decades earlier that involve the occult, with which Norma was infatuated. All of this is framed by chapters set in 1967 that center on a film historian who has been hired to track down the rumored lone surviving copy of The Devil's Playground. Russell, a Scotsman who has won the McIlvanney Prize for The Ghosts of Altona and Hyde, is clearly something of a film historian himself, using his deep knowledge of Old Hollywood and behind-the-scenes industry workings to shape his nesting doll of a novel. Deliciously, the cool, hard-bitten tone of Mary's chapters is in lockstep with that of a classic noir. --Nell Beram, author and freelance writer

In Don't Forget the Girl, short story writer Rebecca McKanna's perceptive first novel, two women wrestle with years-old guilt, exploring whether or not their friend who disappeared 12 years ago was the victim of a serial killer who's about to be executed--while also wondering if they could have protected her. Abby Hartmann was an 18-year-old freshman at the University of Iowa when she vanished Halloween night after walking away from her two best friends, Bree Hadley and Chelsea Navarro, during an argument. They are sure she became another victim of Jon Allan Blue, a Ted Bundyesque killer scheduled to be executed in 25 days. Blue never admitted Abby was among his victims; the police focused on his more sensational murders. Estranged for years, Bree and Chelsea put aside their grudges to work with a popular podcaster dedicating the next season to Blue's murders. The women are determined to uphold Abby's memory and to see that she is counted among Blue's victims.

McKanna, who layers realistic suspense and plot twists, elevates her insightful character studies with crackling dialogue and complex friendships. Abby's presumed murder affected her friends differently. Bree drinks excessively, apathetically teaches photography at a small college--"Photography used to be a hunger. Now it seems like something hanging over her head"--and has an emotionless affair with a student. Now married, Chelsea is an Episcopal priest, still worried that her clandestine affair with Abby contributed to her vanishing. Don't Forget the Girl is memorable. --Oline H. Cogdill, freelance reviewer

In Love, Theoretically, Ali Hazelwood (Love on the Brain; The Love Hypothesis) once again delivers a hilarious, spicy, and heartfelt romance set in the competitive world of STEM academia. Hazelwood revisits her much-loved enemies-to-lovers dynamic with a giant, grumpy, smitten hero and a down-on-her-luck heroine trying to make her way out of the hell that is adjunct professorship. In a twist on the fake-dating trope, theoretical physicist Elsie Hannaway first meets Jack Smith when she's working as his aromantic brother's paid girlfriend to supplement her terrible adjunct wages. She's cobbled together several teaching jobs and has no time to conduct research, nor does she have health insurance--something especially important for people, like herself, who have diabetes. Now she's finally made it into the final round of interviews for a coveted tenure-track position at MIT and things are looking up--until she meets her interview team, including Jonathan Smith-Turner, the experimental physicist who nearly ruined her mentor's career a decade earlier. And Jonathan? He's Jack.

Love, Theoretically is delightfully nerdy and laugh-out-loud funny. Elsie's offbeat roommate is a joy, and a smattering of e-mails from Elsie's students are a highlight. Even the heavier aspects of Hazelwood's character work are enjoyable. Demisexual people-pleaser Elsie spends her life contorting herself to be what others want, so Jack's refusal to let her do that with him is quite charming, despite his terseness. Hazelwood successfully resolves the professional issues at play and employs her signature blend of banter, romance, and humor to send her characters off to a much-deserved happy ending. Readers looking for a geeky, heart-melting, funny romance will want to pick this up. --Suzanne Krohn, librarian and freelance reviewer

Christian Cooper's memoir, Better Living Through Birding, takes readers beyond the Central Park incident that gained him some notoriety in 2020 and into the mind of a thoughtful, observant man: birder, nerd, bicyclist, and much more. Cooper recounts the event in Central Park's Ramble when a white woman (falsely) told the police he was threatening her, but he doesn't dwell on it. Instead, he shares his lifelong passion for birds, including childhood Sunday morning bird walks on Long Island, and his decades of birding Central Park. He also describes his experience as a queer Black man: his gradual acceptance of his own identity, his years at Harvard, and his history of activism. (Fellow nerds will especially enjoy Cooper's memories of his time at Marvel Comics, where he rubbed shoulders with Marvel legends, and helped introduce several groundbreaking gay characters.)

With a keen eye for detail, Cooper presents to readers Central Park's birds (migratory and native) and some of his fellow birding humans. The narrative is sprinkled with helpful birding tips for novices and what Cooper dubs "the Pleasures of Birding": the joy of sighting an unusual species, the satisfaction of puzzling out a bird's identification, the peace of being out in nature. Cooper draws in seemingly disparate topics--pagan spirituality, complex family relationships--but skillfully fits them together under the umbrella of birding, savoring nature, and paying attention. Part memoir, part love letter to birding, Better Living Through Birding is a compelling journey through (and beyond) Central Park, in the hands of a capable guide. --Katie Noah Gibson, blogger at Cakes, Tea and Dreams

The nine effervescent travel-based essays in journalist Connie Wang's first book, Oh My Mother!, upturn stereotypes of suffering immigrants and American dreamers while deftly tracing her family's adjustment to life in the U.S. As Wang explains, the Chinese phrase "wŏde mā ya," literally "oh my mother," is equivalent to the interjection "oh my god." Qing Li, her mother, has been Wang's inspiration as a first-generation immigrant; she's been "the angel and devil on my shoulders, the little voice in my head, and the creative muse that I have pushed against and climbed upon."

Qing gave up her editing career to join her husband, Dexin, getting his physics Ph.D. at the University of Nebraska. Dexin's participation in Tiananmen Square protests precluded their permanent return to China, so they soon sent for two-year-old Connie, too. As the family moved around the Midwest for Dexin's work, they embraced all-American phenomena such as road trips, timeshares, Disney World, and Las Vegas. Wang contrasts adult life in New York City and Los Angeles with her upbringing, and gains perspective on return visits to China: "it felt strange to see my parents as social, popular people." In two standout essays, "Fancy Things" and "R&R," she celebrates a shared love of fashion, as she and Qing tour the opulent Palace of Versailles, and marvels at her mother treating lifelong insomnia with marijuana while in Amsterdam. As a friend observes to her, "Qing's always been a trendsetter." Affectionate and incisive, these mother-daughter essays illuminate family relationships and life across cultures. --Rebecca Foster, freelance reviewer, proofreader and blogger at Bookish Beck

Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Anne Hull's vivid memoir, Through the Groves, re-creates a 1960s childhood among Florida's citrus trees, compassionately tracing how the nuclear unit broke apart, and how she came to accept her sexuality. The Central Florida orange groves where, as a girl, Hull rode along with her father--a fruit buyer for a juice processing company--were magical. "A dirt road took us there" is the memoir's matter-of-fact yet evocative first line. Her father's territory was a frontier all theirs to explore--and during a more innocent time, when no one considered the consequences of cigarettes or pesticides.

However, Hull was aware of her parents' unhappiness, especially as her father's alcoholism progressed. After their divorce, her mother took her and her brother to live with her maternal grandmother, "Damie," and then with a new stepfather named Ted. Hull effectively reinhabits her childhood perspective to bring these figures to life. The narrative speeds up through Hull's teen years and ends with her starting a journalism fellowship at Harvard. The time span allows her to track her reconciliation with her father and her sexual identity. Hull had always been a tomboy, but not until her freshman year of college, when she kissed a female colleague from her Christmas-break restaurant job, did she realize she was a lesbian.

Development, including the construction of Disney World, led to the vast orange groves Hull remembers being cut down. Like childhood, they are lost forever, but memory can, fleetingly, bring them to life again. --Rebecca Foster, freelance reviewer, proofreader and blogger at Bookish Beck

Alyssa Graybeal's quirky debut memoir-in-essays, Floppy, arrays snapshots of how creativity and order--in the form of knitting and librarianship--help her cope with chronic illness. "As a kid, I fell down stairs like it was my hobby," she writes. In the piece "Lucky Fall," she recalls bragging to an ER doctor about the hundreds of stitches she'd had by age 10. This was no mere clumsiness; on that hospital visit, she was diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a connective tissue disorder that leads to persistent pain. With no genetic follow-up or therapeutic intervention until her 30s, Graybeal didn't realize how much her condition would affect daily life, including an unusual gait, sensitivity to temperature extremes, allergies, cramps after eating, and joint pain.

Graybeal grew up in the Pacific Northwest and returned to Oregon after her degrees and marriage in Canada. An effective metaphor contrasts her faulty collagen fibers with the wool she dyed and spun. Crafting links multiple areas of her life. In "How to Dress for Montreal Winter," a compassionate friend knits her mittens; when, in "Framed," she meets her future wife, Mags, she admires Mags's fingerless gloves. The pair live simply and pursue handiwork until Mags's alcoholism drives them apart.

The dynamic essays bounce between times and places. Narrative highlights, witty vs. somber, include her exchange year in France, buying a portable bathtub, and the loss of her half sister to cancer. With realism and occasional whimsy, Graybeal casts a wry eye over life with chronic illness. --Rebecca Foster, freelance reviewer, proofreader and blogger at Bookish Beck

By the time singer Judy Collins quit therapy with the Sullivan Institute for Research in Psychoanalysis, she was calling it a cult. Hard-drinking patient Jackson Pollock certainly wasn't helped by the institute's attitude that alcohol consumption fueled creativity. In The Sullivanians: Sex, Psychotherapy, and the Wild Life of an American Commune, Alexander Stille investigates how this misbegotten alternative community racked up hundreds of patients, many of considerable accomplishment. The book is a stealthy and spellbinding cautionary tale with notes of melodrama, tragedy, and horror story.

Manhattan's Sullivan Institute, which existed from 1957 to 1991, was cofounded by Jane Pearce, who was a trained psychoanalyst, and her then-husband, Saul Newton, who was not. Patients were expected to sever ties with their families because, according to Sullivanian thinking, the family was toxic. Sullivanians lived polygamously, its women discouraged from having kids; the kids they did have were usually raised by in-house babysitters or sent to boarding school. Therapists freely slept with their patients, and predatory director Newton operated as the institute's Harvey Weinstein.

Stille (The Force of Things) laces his portrait with insights pulled from his conversations with former Sullivanians, most (not all) of whom look back bitterly. The Sullivanians will leave readers with an unsettling appreciation for how easy it is to embrace ideologies that justify irresponsible and cruel behavior (excessive drinking, extramarital cheating, avoiding the kids). As the adult daughter of former Sullivanian parents puts it, "the Sullivanian dogma fit in quite nicely with what they already wanted to hear." --Nell Beram, author and freelance writer

Barbara Butcher is one tough lady. Only the second woman ever appointed to serve as a death investigator in Manhattan, she's helped solve crimes that could've callused and darkened her heart many times over. However, in her fascinating, down-to-earth memoir, What the Dead Know, she tells riveting personal stories about investigating homicides, suicides, and tragic accidents that moved and changed her life in extraordinary ways.

Butcher came to the profession through a series of unexpected, fortunate events. A teen who suffered from depression and suicidal impulses, and experimented with drugs, Butcher struggled for direction after high school. A woman she worked for at a nursing home took note of Butcher's potential and encouraged her to become a physician assistant. College coursework on anatomy, physiology, chemistry, pathology, and solving diagnosis puzzles lit a fire under Butcher's ambitions. She did work stints in surgery and gynecology and went on to earn a master's degree in public health. Just as Butcher was en route to a cushy but boring career as a hospital administrator, her personal life unraveled. After she hit rock bottom, she found Alcoholics Anonymous and some career counseling. Butcher was deemed best suited for a career as a coroner.

Inquisitive readers--especially fans of mysteries and true crime--will be captivated by Butcher's appealing, conversational writing style. She presents a trove of detailed, sobering case studies of how notorious investigations--including a chilling section about her work during 9/11--often wore her down, while also expanding her skill set and intellect, and enriching the depths of her character. --Kathleen Gerard, blogger at Reading Between the Lines

It happens to a lot of authors: sooner or later, they try Kafka on for size, as Mohsin Hamid has done (sort of) in The Last White Man. The opening is--it's impossible to avoid the word--Kafkaesque: "One morning Anders, a white man, woke up to find he had turned a deep and undeniable brown." Yet Anders, a trainer at an essentially all-white gym, isn't the only person in the unnamed town whose skin suddenly darkens. His transformation affects not only himself but also other white people in his life, including girlfriend Oona, a yoga instructor still processing her younger brother's drug-related death; Anders's father, "gaunt and ill," who--now that his son is a "dark man"--gives him cash and a rifle for protection; and Oona's mother, who complains that "our people" are changing, and is disturbed by the increase in "the dark faces on her street." As more of those faces darken, white militants try to run the transformed, including Anders, out of town.

Despite its Kafkaesque beginning, the novel, due to its depiction of town-wide transformations and subsequent social breakdown, bears a closer resemblance to Blindness, José Saramago's masterwork about a similar development. Hamid (Exit West; Discontent and Its Civilizations; How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia) even uses the term "a kind of blindness," also noting that, "as with actual blindness," changes can lead to a new kind of seeing. The result is a frighteningly timely allegory about welcome forms of progress and the fears of people unable or unwilling to grow. --Michael Magras, freelance book reviewer

In The Family Remains, Lisa Jewell (Watching You; Then She Was Gone) presents a compelling sequel to The Family Upstairs that continues where that novel left off but also works as a stand-alone novel. The Family Remains begins with the discovery of a human skeleton in the mud of the banks of the Thames. As Detective Samuel Owusu investigates the bones, he quickly realizes that they connect to a famous murder-suicide that happened decades earlier.

Everything changed for Henry Lamb Jr. and Lucy Lamb, wealthy London siblings, when they were preteens. Their parents fell under the sway of a conman, and they suffered unspeakable horrors. Lucy gave birth at age 14 and was only recently reunited with her daughter. Henry has long avoided the trauma of his childhood and the murder of his parents by pretending to be other people. Meanwhile, jewelry designer Rachel Gold is in an abusive relationship, which she's trying to hide from her father and friends. As Detective Owusu's investigation continues, the lives of the Lambs and of Rachel will become entangled in shocking and unexpected ways.

Compulsively entertaining, the pace of The Family Remains never slows: from London to Chicago to the south of France, the action intensifies. And the mix of character development and unexpected surprises makes for a propulsive thriller with enjoyable depth. Fans of domestic thrillers are sure to love how Jewell explores psychological and physical scars in The Family Remains. --Jessica Howard, freelance book reviewer

Solito is Javier Zamora's poetic memoir of his 3,000-mile trek from El Salvador to "La USA" as an undocumented migrant. This heart-pounding, vivid recollection of a desperate path to a better life takes readers every terrifying step of the way.

In a first-person, present-tense narrative, nine-year-old Zamora--whom his Abuelita Neli calls "Javiercito"--recalls preparing for "the trip." It is 1999, and he leaves his beloved Grandpa, Abuelita and Tía Mali to join his Mom and Dad in California. He imagines flying like Superman to a reunion with his parents after his family pays Don Dago, the coyote who, four years prior, safely guided his Mom north. Stoic, resilient Javier seems older than nine, but Zamora (Unaccompanied) reveals the shy boy who struggles to tie his shoes, fears flush toilets, and fantasizes about ice-cold Coke. The trek becomes an increasingly harrowing two-month journey by boat, bus, and pickup truck--but mostly step by step. Lonely Javier establishes a protective "fake family" with Patricia and her daughter, Carla, as well as a man named Chino. Successive "polleros" guide them, handing the travelers off like a flock of chickens. Their fear of "La Migra" heightens as they approach what Zamora calls "Gringolandia."

Zamora creates a sense of immediacy with vibrant descriptions: the moon like "a lopsided egg," rationed water sloshing in plastic jugs with duct-tape handles, sweltering days turning to freezing nights, the group of migrants walking in double lines like a "fat centipede." Javier and his "family," undaunted by two failed crossing attempts and a terrifying detention, repeatedly whisper: "Está bien." Miraculously, this "it's okay" comes true. --Cheryl McKeon, Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza, Albany, N.Y.

In Rogues: True Stories of Grifters, Killers, Rebels and Crooks, Patrick Radden Keefe (Say Nothing; Empire of Pain) collects a dozen thoroughly investigated and engagingly reported articles on a fascinating assortment of characters--from the merely colorful to the criminal--that he produced for the New Yorker between 2007 and 2018.

The breadth of his writing--insider trading in the pharmaceutical industry ("The Empire of Edge"); the dogged search for the last of the plotters who brought down Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, in 1988 ("The Avenger"); the byzantine activities of a notorious international arms dealer ("The Prince of Marbella")--reveals the scope of his curiosity and his confidence that he can make these subjects both comprehensible and compelling.

Rogues also showcases Keefe's affinity for tales of heinous crimes. "A Loaded Gun" recounts the chilling story of Amy Bishop, a neurobiologist at the University of Alabama in Huntsville who murdered three of her colleagues after she was denied tenure, and how that horrific event triggered a fresh investigation into her involvement in the death of her brother more than two decades earlier. Keefe also brings the conventional celebrity profile to life in "Winning," the story of reality television pioneer Mark Burnett and the role The Apprentice played in Donald Trump's political rise.

In these and all the other pieces in Rogues, Keefe painstakingly unearths and shares the details that render diverse true stories as engrossing as fiction. --Harvey Freedenberg, freelance reviewer

Jean Hanff Korelitz follows her wickedly clever novel The Plot with The Latecomer, which may lack a traditional plot, yet has multitudes to recommend it just the same. By dint of her mastery of crafting a scene, Korelitz (You Should Have Known) manages to convince readers that whether characters find their peace matters as much as whether a character is, say, found guilty of plagiarism.

The Latecomer is narrated by Phoebe Oppenheimer, the younger sibling of the Oppenheimer triplets, who were conceived through in vitro fertilization in 1981. (Phoebe's "absurdly late appearance" nearly two decades later "screamed family crisis," as one of the triplets puts it, and fairly.) As if traumatized by their forced togetherness in utero, the triplets have--to their mother's enduring despair--spent their lives trying to get away from one another. Harrison railed against the liberalism of his secular Jewish upbringing in Brooklyn Heights and, rather than attend Cornell, his father's alma mater, opted for a conservative two-year college before moving to Harvard. Conversely, Sally and Lewyn went to Cornell, although so determined was Sally not to acknowledge her kinship with Lewyn that she didn't tell her roommate, who was dating him, that he was her brother.

Why all this intra-fraternal rage? That's what Phoebe is trying to figure out. The Latecomer can read like a collection of funny stories, with episodes that elucidate character and sparkle with dialogue-rich scenes that touch on politics, religion, race, privilege and sexuality, but they don't recalibrate the novel's path. That's okay: the occasional telegraphing from Phoebe can feel like a clarifying gut punch to happily unsuspecting readers. --Nell Beram, author and freelance writer

Debut author and illustrator Chloe Savage dives into the wonders of the Arctic in a delightful marine adventure featuring female scientist Dr. Morley. Savage pairs her narration with playful ink-and-watercolor illustrations that are so detailed that the reading experience can be as much of an exploration as Morley's search for the jellyfish.

Morley's life ambition is to find the giant Arctic jellyfish, which has been theorized but never seen. The determined Dr. Morley and her dedicated crew have researched and planned for years. Now they are ready. They bundle up in warm clothes, stock the boat, and set sail "on their adventure to the northernmost tip of the world." They encounter "a majestic pod of narwhals" and "playful orca," but the team cannot find the primary objective of their expedition. The giant Arctic jellyfish, though, adorably appears just out of sight during every step of the journey: peeking over the ice or floating underwater.

The art, silky and fluid as a jellyfish, that graces the pages of this endearing picture book leverages perspective to emphasize the vastness of the Arctic as well as the depth of the chilly waters they are exploring. Additional details--like socks, hats, and pants drying on a rope across the boat deck--enhance both a feeling of frigid cold and spirited fun. Minute illustrated features inside the ship give readers oodles of things to investigate. Savage creates through text and art a grand adventure perfect for young explorers. The Search for the Giant Arctic Jellyfish is an excellent picture book venture. --Jen Forbus, freelancer

What? There's already a treasure trove of punning pirate picture books out there? Sure there arrrr. But Mike Allegra (Sleepy Happy Capy Cuddles) and Jenn Harney (Hazy Bloom series) have struck gold doubloons with Pirate & Penguin, a hoot of a howler about a pirate who's desperate for a feathered friend.

A pirate has been "searchin' the Seven Seas for a parrot pal" when a penguin literally falls onto his ship. The pirate isn't great on species identification: "What a perfect pirate parrot ye arrrrr!" True, he has some concern about the penguin's appearance--"The blazin' sun seems ta have faded yer parroty plumage"--but it's nothing that some paint can't fix. Still, the bird's verbal unresponsiveness is a sticking point, as is its ineptness at basic sailor tasks ("Trim sail on the mizzenmast, Parrot, and haul wind!"). The pirate's meltdown ("You be the worst good-fer-nothing parrot I'S EVER SEEN!") moves the penguin to walk the plank, after which the pirate does some (semi)serious soul-searching ("Curse me terrible temper!") and begs for the bird's forgiveness.

Underneath all the exclamation-point-festooned dialogue balloons and slapsticky art, which has a dynamically caricaturish quality, is a cozy message: the pirate decides to take the penguin "just the way ye arrrrrrr!" Pirate & Penguin is both an acceptance tale and a knee-slapper fueled by the holy trinity of funny: tantrums, underpants jokes ("ARRRR! ME UNDERGARRRRMENTS!"), and sight gags (a wordless final spread shows a real parrot literally missing the boat... and perhaps happy to have some downtime?). --Nell Beram, freelance writer and YA author

Federico Erebia's devastatingly beautiful debut, Pedro & Daniel, is based on the author's own relationship with his brother, and chronicles the lives of two gay Indigenous Mexican American brothers who grew up in 1970s Ohio and came into adulthood during the HIV and AIDS epidemic.

Erebia experiments with form in the novel. Part one, the protagonists' early lives, consists of 16 stories told in slightly differing third-person narration. Parts two through five use alternating first-person points of view, allowing Pedro and Daniel to tell their own stories. The third-person introductions depict brothers who, though born 15 months apart, are "son tal para cual" ("they are two of a kind"). They endure immense hardships, including food insecurity, and physical and emotional abuse at the hands of their mother, especially directed at their effeminate qualities. Pedro, who is dark skinned and has learning disabilities, withstands the bulk of his mother's abuse: "I bet I'm the embodiment of her shame." Parts two and three cover 1969 to 1980, each protagonist describing his own childhood, adolescence, and teen years. Part four and five illustrate the next 12 years: "1980 - Diagnosis" and "Diagnosis - 1992."

Throughout, the boys' close relationship is reflected in the Spanish proverbs (dichos) that Daniel invokes as a coping mechanism. "Desgracia compartida, menos sentida./ Shared misery is felt less." The result of Erebia's delicate work is a poetic YA novel that is both fiction and memoir. Julie Kwon's sweet grayscale mixed-media illustrations demarcate the book's five distinct sections and inject an air of hope and humor. --Kieran Slattery, freelance reviewer, teacher, co-creator of Gender Inclusive Classrooms

Under the Blanket Sky is a lyrically written, lushly illustrated picture book about one magical summer friendship that may endure forever as something "between a memory and a dream."

One morning, "with a brush of wind and flutter of sunlight," a "strange creature" appears to a child. It has "bright eyes," soft feathers, and "smell[s] like the sky." The two become friends and, all summer long, the child shares their "favorite things to do and places to spend time" with the owl-like being. When the child wonders if things will "always be this way," the creature assures the child that he's "glad we have today." Then a day arrives "with a curious feeling"--a day that hints of autumn--and the friends know the time has come for the creature to "spread his great wings and return to the sky." Even as summer ends and school draws near, the child sees hints of "hello and goodbye" in the form of "bright eyes at the window" and "blue feathers in the sky."

Tim Fischer's bittersweet debut is a delightful flight of fancy wherein an imaginary creature enriches what might otherwise have been a lonely time for a solitary child. The bond between child and creature is heartfelt and wonderfully communicated through an excellent balance of text and art. Fischer evocatively builds a powerful sense of connection as well as the passage of time through a series of wordless, elegant double-page spreads. This tale of enduring friendship captivates from stunning sunrise to idyllic evening--and all the summer days between. --Lynn Becker, reviewer, blogger, and children's book author

If Monty Python had written a picture book, it might have been How to Count to ONE (and Don't Even THINK About Bigger Numbers!). Brits Caspar Salmon and Matt Hunt seem to be channeling the legendary English comedy troupe's use of devilishly deadpan silliness to suit a higher purpose: teaching kids how to count.

Following an anodyne introduction ("HELLO! Welcome to a fun new counting book. Are you ready to start counting?"), an omniscient narrator walks readers through a series of counting exercises that have something in common: readers must count no higher than "ONE." This makes sense when readers are presented with an illustration of a single apple, but it seems a little weird when illustrations suggest more challenging counting tasks, as when a spread features two whales and readers are asked, "How many... SAUSAGES do you see?" (True, there's just ONE sausage. But still!)

The more agitated the narrator gets ("What?! Did you think you would learn to count to big numbers like a HUNDRED?!"), the more amused readers will likely be, plus who can keep a straight face when presented with a worm wearing a fake mustache? Many of the objects that readers are (not?) supposed to count are adorably dim-looking animals, but there are also more curious items, notably a plated Jell-O tower in outer space. Everything reappears at the end of How to Count to ONE in a snappy salon-style exhibition of 100 things that readers are finally--finally--asked to count. --Nell Beram, freelance writer and YA author