I don't like reading about these sorts of people. They seem very unreal to me, with their swanky condominia and designer suits and bizarre sense of entitlement. It is possible to write about wealthy, well-to-do folks and make it interesting, but I almost feel that kind of thing is a relic of past literature that the rest of us can now admire from a distance. I know the sort of high society people Clark writes about really do exist, although I would hope they aren't as shallow and sickly sweet as depicted here, but I think in the best literature you wouldnt' even notice how extravagant these people live unless the author was making a point about it; you would think that these are real people like you or me and that the amount of money they happen to make is irrelevant. Mary Higgins just can't get over the hurdle, I think, and perhaps she doesn't even want to.
In any case, this story is hopeless in every sense. She's known as a "suspense" writer, but there was barely a sense of real danger or tension present in any of this. I must say that Clark fails on a very basic level: her readers are always several steps ahead of most of the characters, who spend the rest of the book trying to catch up. Do people really enjoy reading pages and pages of self-doubt and dialogue that's rendered meaningless before it even comes out of the mouth? I just don't understand. What's the payoff? Surely there must be some answer, because she's apparently a bestselling author of astounding proportions.
I'm also very unimpressed with the way Clark tries to throw us a red herring about who the kidnapper might be. It's not just that it's an obvious red herring, because actually it isn't, quite, it's the smug way in which she goes about writing it, as though she's rubbing her hands together and thinking to herself "god, I really am going to surprise them by revealing who it really is, aren't I???" The thing is, even if you weren't expecting the truth, it's pretty meaningless: there are only two possibilities for culprit ever given, and neither of them are really people Clark invests a lot of time and attention to, so we simply don't care, don't feel betrayed or upset by this revelation.
So, another book from the workplace that's simply not for me. It is occasionally amusing in a strictly unintentional way, but mostly it's all a bit sickening, especially when Clark piles on the gooey and cloying sentimentality. I understand the woman is quite old now and probably far from the top of her game, so perhaps I should be easy on her, but I'm not going anywhere near her other books.