what i’m reading: his & hers by alice feeney

His & Hers by Alice Feeney is a psychological thriller at its best. A total 5-star achievement! I highly recommend it, and please read it before you watch the story on Netflix.

What’s it About?
It’s the story of a series of murders, told by him, her, and the killer.

‘He’ is a police officer. His name is Jack Harper, and he is a suspect because he was having sex with the first victim on the night she was murdered.

‘She’ is a TV presenter. Her name is Anna Andrews, and she was a school friend of all the murder victims.

And there is the story told by the killer, and that’s how we, as the readers, get to hear the truth. Here’s the interesting thing, though: the killer’s narration shares striking similarities with both Jack’s and Anna’s voices.

So, who is telling the truth? Are the narrators deceitful? Possibly. But one thing is certain: the killer always tells the truth.

“Sometimes I think I am the unreliable narrator of my own life. Sometimes I think we all are.”

The connection between ‘him’, ‘her’, and the victims is uncanny, and you still don’t know where all this is going. That’s what makes His & Hers a really good book. It is one of those books that hooks you completely, consumes your time, mind and possibly your soul too. On the one hand, you want to know the truth; on the other, you do not want this rush of adrenaline, excitement, and endorphins to end.

I must admit, psychological thrillers are not my favourite genre, but having read Harlan Coben’s books, I decided to give it a try, and His & Hers is by far one of my special reads of the year.

I won’t give you any more clues and ruin your reading experience because you should read it and see it for yourself. It’s absolutely worth it.

And if you buy it through the links below, I will get a small commission from Amazon with no additional cost to you.

Grab your own copy from Amazon US or Amazon AU, depending on your location.

My favourite lines from His & Hers are below:

Sometimes I think I am the unreliable narrator of my own life. Sometimes I think we all are.

Patience is the answer to so many of life’s questions.

I think when we finally get what we think we want, it loses its value. It’s the secret nobody ever shares, because if they did, we would all stop trying.

Tell a person they’re wrong, and they’ll cover their ears. Tell a person they’re right, and they’ll listen to you all day long.

Youth fools us into thinking there are infinite paths to choose from in life; maturity tricks us into thinking there is only one.

Sometimes we hold on too tight to the wrong people, until it hurts so much we have to let go.

I think you reach an age—and it is different for everyone—where you finally realize that all the things you thought mattered, don’t.

People rarely see themselves the way others do; we all carry broken mirrors.

Memories are shapeshifters. Some bend, some twist, and some shrivel and die over time. But our worst ones never leave us.”

Sometimes I get lost in my own thoughts and fears. Trapped within a world of worry which, deep down, I know only exists inside my head. Anxiety often screams louder than logic, and when you spend too long imagining the worst you can make it come true.

There are two kinds of women: those who spend a lifetime trying not to turn into their mothers, and those who literally seem to want nothing more. I often find both varieties get the complete opposite of what they hoped for – one set become carbon copies of the women they didn’t want to be, while the others never live up to their own expectations of who they think they should have become.

Some people build invisible walls around themselves in the name of self-preservation. Hers were always tall, solid, and impenetrable.

Silence is my favourite symphony; I can’t think clearly when life gets too loud.

Choosing to forget can be a lot less painful than choosing to remember.

I’ve always loved listening to the way different people speak, it can tell you so much about them. I don’t just mean accents, I mean everything: the tone, the volume, the speed, as well as the language. The words they choose to use, and how and when and why they say them. The silences between the sentences, which can be just as loud. A person’s voice is like a wave – some just wash right over you, while others have the power to knock you down and drag you into an ocean of self-doubt. The sound of her speaking makes me feel like I’m drowning.

We all have cracks, the little dents and blemishes that life makes in our hearts and minds, cemented by fear and anxiety, sometimes plastered over with fragile hope. I choose to hide the vulnerable sides of myself as well as I’m able at all times. I choose to hide a lot of things.

The only people with no regrets are liars.

Parents spend their youth trying to understand their children; children spend their adulthood trying to understand their parents.

Sometimes I find the only way to ease the worst forms of pain is to damage myself in a different way. Distract my attention from the things that can and will break me. A little hurt to help me heal.

We rarely deserve the lives we lead. We pay for them however we can, be it with money, guilt, or regret.

Sometimes even I don’t like to see the me that I become when nobody else is looking.

There are some people we never really let go of in life. Or death. Even when we pretend to. They are always still there, lurking in our loneliest thoughts, haunting our memories with dreams that can no longer come true.

Sometimes it feels as though I live just below the surface, and everyone else lives above. When I try to be, and sound, and act like they do for too long, it feels like I can’t breathe. As though even my lungs were made differently, and I’m not able, or good enough to inhale the same air as the people I meet.

People might recognise my face, they may even know my name, but they’ll never know the real me. Nobody does. I’ve always been selfish with the true thoughts and feelings inside my head; I don’t share them with anyone. Because I can’t. There is a version of me I can only ever be with myself. I sometimes think the secret to success is the ability to adapt. Life rarely stays the same, and I’ve frequently had to reinvent myself in order to keep up.

There are some things we only hold on to because of who gave them to us: names, beliefs, scarves.

I made it a habit not to forget anything or anyone, especially people who have wronged me. What I lack in forgiveness I make up for in patience. And I pay attention to the little things, because they are often the biggest clues to who a person really is. People rarely see themselves the way others do; we all carry broken mirrors.

This job isn’t about making friends, it’s about not making enemies.

There is a difference between being and feeling alone, and it is possible to miss someone and be with them at the same time.

I pay attention to the little things, because they are often the biggest clues to who a person really is.

There is always a heartbeat-length moment when you know that something very bad is about to happen, and you are too late to do anything about it. It lasts less than a second and more than a lifetime all at once, while you are frozen in space and time, reluctant to look ahead, but knowing it’s too late to look back.

Sometimes we believe what we want to about the people we like the most.