I am Not a Serial Killer

John Wayne Cleaver is dangerous, and he knows it.

He’s spent his life doing his best not to live up to his potential.

He’s obsessed with serial killers, but really doesn’t want to become one. So for his own sake, and the safety of those around him, he lives by rigid rules he’s written for himself, practicing normal life as if it were a private religion that could save him from damnation.

Dead bodies are normal to John. He likes them, actually. They don’t demand or expect the empathy he’s unable to offer. Perhaps that’s what gives him the objectivity to recognize that there’s something different about the body the police have just found behind the Wash-n-Dry Laundromat—and to appreciate what that difference means.

One of my favorite tricks that an author can do is to put something into a book that throws my expectations out the window. I went into this book thinking that it would be Dexter but with a kid.

And Dan Wells makes you think that for half the book. Then it gets crazy and the rest of the book is fantastic. There is a point in the book when I exclaimed, “Shit!” out loud, and I love having that kind of reaction.

Don’t forget that you can support my writing efforts on Patreon