Emily Carpenter’s The Weight of Lies suffers from weighty absurdity and unrealistic measures. While the blurb promises an enthralling ride via a book within a book, its actuality gifts predictable ending, forcing me to push through to get to a ridiculous “twist”.
Megan’s pretty unlikable. She’s selfish, easily swayed, annoying and naïve. Granted, I adore unlikable characters. They’re my cup of tea. However, Megan reads like hot dog water. She makes dumb decisions and by story’s end, instead of twenty-four, you feel, as though, you followed a twelve-year-old – one compelling you to ignore. I should feel sorry for her background and impending doom, instead my eyes rolled so much I had to push them forward so I could see yawn-inducing second half.
Granted, the story leaked promise. The misaligned daughter of a famous novelist seeks to find the truth behind her mother’s famous story and ends up crashing a party she should have declined. I borrowed the novel for that promise alone. But, what occurs is a crammed and unnecessary love story in an attempt to dissuade readers from saying, “What in the hell am I reading?”
Let’s not even discuss using Native Americans as a trope to heighten tension, spicing your plot, and add drama.
By the time I reached the final third of the story, I bypassed the tons of description to read the Lifetime Channel-inspired dialogue. One major twist’s offered right away, but I would’ve ignored if not thrown in my face more than once.