The Missing Girls

I’ll admit, I approached *The Missing Girls* with skepticism—another detective chasing another serial killer? But within an hour, Emma Newman’s performance had me hooked. There’s a rawness to her portrayal of Robyn Carter that’s rare in the genre: no breathy dramatics, just the exhausted, laser-focused intensity of a woman who’s seen too much. When Carter snaps at a colleague or swallows her frustration during a press conference, Newman’s timing is *perfect*—you can hear the teeth-clenching restraint. The production quality is impeccable, too; the audio levels are balanced even during tense whisper sequences, and the ambient sounds (a distant police radio, the hum of a morgue fridge) are subtle but immersive. The story’s structure is where Wyer really flexes her muscles. She resists the urge to front-load the audiobook with shock value, instead letting the horror unfold methodically. The first body is discovered early, but the investigation isn’t a neat progression—it’s a slog, with dead ends and red tape that’ll frustrate you as much as Carter. My only critique? The midpoint lags slightly as the procedural details pile up, and one subplot involving Carter’s personal life feels undercooked compared to the meticulous crime-solving. But the payoff is worth it: the final act delivers a gut-punch twist that’s earned, not contrived. This isn’t a thriller for listeners who want easy answers or a tidy resolution. It’s for those who crave a detective who’s as flawed as she is formidable, and a narrator who makes every second of the 12-hour runtime feel urgent.