I like Erica Spindler. Up until a couple of months ago I'd seen her books and just written her off as another one of those authors who was sold in supermarkets. How wrong I was. I read "see Jane Die" in an evening and within a few days ordered a fair amount of her back catalogue and liked 'em all. Other than this one.
I like to think I'm quite widely read, and don't favour one genre in particular. As voracious a reader as I am, I can't stand romance novels and this certainly seemed like one. It felt like Erica took a pinch of VC Andrews, another pinch of Jeffrey Archer and an echo of herself and came up with this.
The narrative is a simple love story with the usual complications of people not wanting to put themselves out there and get hurt, being brought up in dire circumstances, sigh sigh cliche. The main protaganists are polar opposites (and inevitably unbelieveably attracted to eachother because of it) and there are so many cliched plot twists I really only persevered because, well, I hoped it would get better.
The most interesting part of the novel was the serial killer who was just glossed over. Instead we had some bizarre pastiche of Snow White and the wicked step mother and a happy ever after.
In fairness, it wasn't badly written, and wrapped up tidily. I just much much prefer her other work.