Can’t remember the last time I read a book this bad. It starts off with the main character declaring himself probably the last living historian, even though he knows full well there’s a post-doc historian living in the hotel with him? He’s supposed to be a Stanford professor but this doesn’t influence his outlook in the slightest which is majorly unrealistic for people in the humanities. He doesn’t even mention what kind of history he specialised in- just “the past” and “words” and “people”. This is not how historians function! Then he and the doctor character (who we’re supposed to like but is criminally underdeveloped) have a laugh with each other during the autopsy of a child’s body? Then we’re promised an interesting whodunnit

but none of the characters are distinct enough from each other for it to be in any way interesting, and the resolution is totally glossed over at the end. What’s with the hallucinations throughout? What’s with the protagonist not caring at all that they’re drinking radioactive water? What’s with the dead girl being totally glossed over at the end, like she never even mattered? Why did the author write this book!! I don’t understand!! She had nothing to say!