Blagica Jankuloska
The Paris Apartment: Lights Dimmed, Drama Maxed
I've been on a serious reading streak lately and loving it. It's been ages since I had the time (and focus) to actually finish all the books I started months ago. The Paris Apartment by Lucy Foley was one of them. And... I liked it. Didn't love it. Just liked it.
This book is classic Foley: atmospheric, full of tension, and dripping with drama. Jess shows up at her half-brother Ben’s Paris apartment, only to find him missing and the building full of sketchy, secretive neighbors. As she starts poking around, things get weird fast. You know the drill—everyone’s hiding something, and nothing is what it seems. Cue the ominous music.
Foley is great at building suspense. Every scene is thick with moody shadows, eerie noises, and dramatic pauses. But after a while, it becomes too much. The tone never lets up. It’s all tension, all the time. No room to breathe, no contrast. Just constant dread.
And the characters? Every single one is dialed up to eleven. They're jumpy, paranoid, and weirdly intense—even when nothing’s happening. It starts to feel cartoonish. Like, who attacks a bush just to smell it? And who watches that and decides it’s "presumptuous"? If you can get through that scene without rolling your eyes, you deserve a medal.
Jess herself doesn’t really solve the mystery so much as bumble her way through it. She snoops, steals, blurts out awkward questions, and generally acts like she’s in way over her head. The rest of the cast isn’t much better—mostly unpleasant, sweaty, and oddly obsessed with bad breath.
As for the twists? They’re fine. Nothing shocking. If you’ve read a few thrillers, you’ll probably see most of them coming. It all feels a bit over-the-top by the end, but somehow I still wanted to keep reading. So I guess it did its job—just not exceptionally well.
The Paris Apartment: Lights Dimmed, Drama Maxed
I've been on a serious reading streak lately and loving it. It's been ages since I had the time (and focus) to actually finish all the books I started months ago. The Paris Apartment by Lucy Foley was one of them. And... I liked it. Didn't love it. Just liked it.
This book is classic Foley: atmospheric, full of tension, and dripping with drama. Jess shows up at her half-brother Ben’s Paris apartment, only to find him missing and the building full of sketchy, secretive neighbors. As she starts poking around, things get weird fast. You know the drill—everyone’s hiding something, and nothing is what it seems. Cue the ominous music.
Foley is great at building suspense. Every scene is thick with moody shadows, eerie noises, and dramatic pauses. But after a while, it becomes too much. The tone never lets up. It’s all tension, all the time. No room to breathe, no contrast. Just constant dread.
And the characters? Every single one is dialed up to eleven. They're jumpy, paranoid, and weirdly intense—even when nothing’s happening. It starts to feel cartoonish. Like, who attacks a bush just to smell it? And who watches that and decides it’s "presumptuous"? If you can get through that scene without rolling your eyes, you deserve a medal.
Jess herself doesn’t really solve the mystery so much as bumble her way through it. She snoops, steals, blurts out awkward questions, and generally acts like she’s in way over her head. The rest of the cast isn’t much better—mostly unpleasant, sweaty, and oddly obsessed with bad breath.
As for the twists? They’re fine. Nothing shocking. If you’ve read a few thrillers, you’ll probably see most of them coming. It all feels a bit over-the-top by the end, but somehow I still wanted to keep reading. So I guess it did its job—just not exceptionally well.