The Cliff House

I’ll admit, I rolled my eyes at the premise—*another* isolated-group thriller? But *The Cliff House* disarms you by making the stakes feel brutally personal. Brookmyre doesn’t just strand these women; he forces them to confront the lies they’ve told each other (and themselves) for years. The brilliance is in the details: the way a ‘harmless’ joke about someone’s divorce suddenly feels like a landmine after the power goes out, or how a character’s manic laughter curdles into something unhinged. Barron’s narration is *so* good it’s almost unfair—she gives each woman a distinct rhythmic cadence, from the brassy confidence of the maid of honor to the brittle, over-enunciated panic of the bride. I actually rewound a few scenes just to hear her deliver a particularly cutting insult. That said, the pacing stumbles in the middle. Brookmyre indulges in *just* a few too many flashbacks to the women’s shared history, and while they deepen the character work, they blunt the momentum. And without spoiling anything, the final act’s violence feels abrupt—like Brookmyre couldn’t decide between psychological unraveling and outright slasher chaos. Still, the audiobook’s production elevates it: subtle sound design (a creaking door, a muffled scream) makes the isolation visceral. If you love thrillers that double as social commentary—think *Big Little Lies* meets *The Hunting Party*, but with more whisky and fewer apologies—this is your next binge-listen. Just maybe don’t queue it up for *your* next girls’ trip.