It’s an old-fashioned murder mystery with a brilliant detective and a clueless sidekick, but what I love about the style of Anthony Horowitz is that he gives the reader plenty of clues to sift through.
The Man Who Died Twice combines murder and intrigue with the banality of life and growing old in a way that is simultaneously fast-paced and gripping and delightfully comic.
As always, reading a book as well-written as this one is, for me, as much an education as it is entertainment. It informs my own writing in an invaluable way.
The story is light-hearted, but the plot is intelligent enough to fulfill all your mystery expectations. Clever, modern, and charming, it ticks all the boxes, but from the novel perspective of an older and wiser cast.
Three minutes can be an eternity. Forty-five breaths. One hundred and eighty seconds. Two hundred and ten heartbeats.
Angelina’s not worried about the letters anymore. She’s floating in the swimming pool leaking crimson ribbons that swirl like steeping tea.
He gets so sick of those people with their happy lives and their normal jobs on solid ground. He gets so angry when he’s seen by no one, moving state to state leaving no trace, Mr. Inconsequential mattering to nobody nowhere.
Javier stood at the starting line, concentrating on his breathing. He blocked out all the commotion around him. His focus was keener, sharper than at any other moment in his life. This was his time.
If there was one thing Cuthbert could not abide, it was helping yourself to something that wasn’t yours.