The Surrogate

I’ll admit: I went into *The Surrogate* expecting another *Gone Girl* knockoff, but Maitland’s novel is smarter and more insidious than that. The premise—a surrogate who may not be as selfless as she seems—could’ve veered into melodrama, but the execution is razor-sharp. The first half plays like a slow-burn character study, with Lucy’s passive-aggressive ‘kindness’ making your skin crawl. (The scene where she ‘accidentally’ spills tea on Sophie’s fertility paperwork? *Chef’s kiss.*) Then, just as you think you’ve got the measure of the power dynamics, Maitland yanks the rug out—not with a scream, but with a whisper. Imogen Church’s performance is *exceptional*, though I’ll dock half a point for her occasional over-emphasis on Sophie’s emotional breakdowns; the rawness sometimes tips into theatricality. Still, her Lucy is chillingly perfect—a voice that could lull you into trust before slipping a knife between your ribs. The pacing drags slightly in the middle (a subplot about Sophie’s husband feels undercooked), but the final act delivers a gut-punch ending that’s both inevitable and shocking. If you love thrillers that weaponize *normalcy*—where the real horror isn’t a masked killer but the person you invited into your home—this is your next obsession. Just don’t listen while babysitting.