My standout among these five books is Death and the Taxman, but the most interesting discovery is what connects them: the struggle to regain control. From supernatural comedy to disturbing true crime, these reads show why a shocking premise alone isn’t enough.

I didn’t set out to assemble a reading list about power. Yet, looking back, that’s what emerged.

A Grim Reaper loses command of his own existence. A psychic woman discovers that knowing the future might not save her. A true crime account examines a murder beneath the surface of an apparently enviable marriage. Another book presents allegations of children being failed by the adults and institutions meant to protect them. And a novel about a childhood lobotomy raises uncomfortable questions about who gets to tell someone else’s story.

These are very different reading experiences. Some offer escape; others demand emotional energy. Together, though, they prompted a useful distinction: the importance of a book’s subject and the satisfaction of reading it aren’t the same thing.

Thank you to NetGalley for providing review copies of these audiobooks. The opinions and ratings below are my own.

Here’s my take on all five.

Death and the Taxman: the Grim Reaper has a very human problem

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

There’s something immediately appealing about Death discovering that having a human body is an administrative nightmare.

In David Hankins’s Death and the Taxman, an ill-advised encounter with IRS auditor Frank Totmann leaves the Grim Reaper trapped in the auditor’s dying body. Regaining his powers becomes urgent: the being responsible for shepherding other people towards their final destinations now has to confront his own.

Meanwhile, his absence from the job has consequences. People who should be dying aren’t, and what initially looks miraculous threatens to become something much less welcome.

It’s a premise with plenty of comic possibilities. Death may understand mortality in principle, but living inside a body introduces a different set of demands. There are physical needs, awkward relationships, dangerous encounters, and precious little time to sort everything out.

Why it was my favourite of the five

This was a fun read, and the comparison that came to mind was the Andrea Vernon series.

That’s a useful indication of the kind of enjoyment I found here: extraordinary circumstances rubbing up against ordinary frustrations. The supernatural premise supplies the absurdity, while recognisable human complications give me something to hold on to.

There’s also a pleasing reversal at its centre. Death usually represents the limit of human control. Here, Death is the one scrambling for options.

My clearest verdict is also the simplest: I’d like more of Death’s shenanigans. Of these five books, this was the one that most successfully combined its premise with an enjoyable reading experience.

Who I’d recommend it to: Readers who enjoy comic fantasy, supernatural bureaucracy, and an unlikely protagonist having a spectacularly inconvenient time.

Discovering the Club: a shocking subject doesn’t automatically make a compelling listen

My rating: 2 out of 5 stars

Content note: Child sexual abuse, exploitation, trafficking allegations, and failures of protection.

Cynthia L. Clack’s Discovering the Club: Piecing Together the Puzzling Network of Parental Pimping, Ritualistic Abuse, and Sex Trafficking was the most disturbing listening experience in this selection.

Drawing on her legal work, Clack presents an account of alleged child abuse, exploitation, and failures of accountability. The book describes cases in which, in her assessment, evidence and court outcomes did not align, investigations lost momentum, and vulnerable children were left without adequate protection.

What unsettled me most

My strongest reaction was to the book’s portrayal of adults looking away, diverting attention, or failing to act when children needed protection.

That makes for difficult listening. The disturbing element isn’t simply the alleged abuse itself, but the suggestion that opportunities to intervene could be missed or resisted.

Those are worthwhile questions. They also require care: a powerful emotional response to a book shouldn’t take the place of evaluating its evidence.

Why I gave it two stars

The delivery felt dry and factual to me.

That approach may suit listeners who prefer a restrained, document-focused account. In my experience, however, the presentation didn’t make for a compelling listen, despite the gravity of the material.

This is where a star rating can be misunderstood. My two-star assessment reflects the listening experience. It doesn’t measure how much the protection of children matters.

A subject can deserve urgent attention while a particular book about it leaves me dissatisfied. I think readers deserve that distinction, especially when the material is this emotionally demanding.

Who may find it worthwhile: Readers interested in the author’s account of institutional failures and legal cases, who are comfortable with distressing material and a factual delivery.

A Double Life: a murder plot that seems almost impossible to believe

My rating: 3 out of 5 stars

Content note: Murder and violence.

Mikita Brottman’s A Double Life: The Anatomy of a Premeditated Murder examines the killing of Florida physician Teresa Sievers.

The case begins with an unsettling contrast. Teresa and her husband, Mark, appeared to have an enviable family life. After Teresa was found murdered at home, the circumstances surrounding that life became the focus of a far darker story.

My immediate response was disbelief at the crime’s plot. The circumstances are the sort that might seem excessive in fiction.

The uneasy appeal of an extraordinary true crime story

That reaction is part of what makes true crime compelling, but it also creates an editorial challenge.

When a case contains unusually tangled relationships or startling details, those elements can dominate a reader’s attention. The person who was killed can become secondary to the puzzle of how it happened.

The book’s premise also invites reflection on how little an outwardly successful life tells me about private relationships. A respected career, an attractive home, and a convincing public image don’t give an outsider complete knowledge of a family.

My three-star rating captures a measured response. The case is striking, and the plot stayed with me, but I wouldn’t turn that astonishment into an unqualified recommendation.

Who I’d recommend it to: True crime readers drawn to complicated relationships and the psychological questions surrounding a murder.

It Runs in the Family: seeing your own murder is only the beginning

My rating: 3 out of 5 stars

Denise Grover Swank’s It Runs in the Family gives its protagonist a gift that looks much less appealing once it becomes personal.

Iris Gardner has lived with psychic visions for years. Her family is accustomed to making use of them, while she tries to create some distance from the surrounding chaos by working the graveyard shift at a Texas convenience store.

Then a stranger triggers a vision of her own murder.

Her cousin Selena appears in that vision, pleading for Iris’s life. When Iris tries to warn her, she discovers Selena is missing. Knowing something terrible may happen doesn’t tell her how to prevent it, whom to trust, or why she’s in danger.

Family familiarity makes the supernatural premise work

The psychic element gives the story its hook. The family dynamic makes that hook relatable.

There’s a particular frustration in being valued for what you can do for other people while your own needs receive less attention. Iris’s situation turns that familiar imbalance into a mystery with personal stakes.

The book reminded me of Finlay Donovan. That’s a comparison based on my reading experience, rather than a suggestion that the stories are identical: family complications and danger occupy the same space, giving me more to follow than the central threat alone.

A three-star read I’d continue

I’m looking forward to the rest of the series.

That might sound at odds with a three-star rating, but it’s a useful distinction. A book doesn’t have to become a favourite to leave me interested in its characters and what happens next.

Who I’d recommend it to: Readers who enjoy psychic mysteries, messy family relationships, and protagonists whose personal lives complicate an already dangerous situation.

A Veritable Household Pet review: horrifying subject matter, but a different kind of horror

My rating: 3 out of 5 stars

Content note: Childhood lobotomy and distressing medical themes.

Viggy Parr Hampton’s A Veritable Household Pet left me with the strongest question about genre expectations.

The novel centres on Darla Gregory, who underwent a lobotomy at eleven years old. Her story is presented through a sibling acting as a scribe, adding explanations and supporting material to an account Darla cannot write independently.

I found it interesting. What I didn’t find was the kind of horror experience I’d expected from its positioning.

Why the horror label didn’t fit my experience

Lobotomies are horrifying, and accounts of their aftermath can be deeply upsetting. I have no difficulty recognising the horror in the subject.

My reading experience, though, felt closer to literary family drama. I didn’t encounter the paranormal, thriller, or mystery atmosphere I tend to seek when choosing horror.

That’s a statement about my expectations, rather than a rule that horror must contain supernatural elements. Realistic events, bodily vulnerability, and the loss of autonomy can all be the foundation of horror. Nevertheless, a genre label helps readers decide what sort of experience they’re choosing, and this one didn’t align with mine.

Who controls Darla’s story?

The framing offers another interesting way to approach the novel.

A scribe makes Darla’s account accessible, but also stands between her and the reader. Assistance and control occupy the same space: someone is helping her speak while deciding where clarification or additional context is needed.

That creates a question worth sitting with. How can I hear a person’s experience when someone else mediates it?

It also connects this novel to the wider thread running through my reading list. Loss of control isn’t only physical. It can involve who speaks for someone, how their experiences are interpreted, and whether their own voice remains recognisable.

My three-star verdict reflects an interesting read whose genre positioning worked less well for me. Readers approaching it as a disturbing family drama may have a different response.

Who may appreciate it: Readers interested in difficult family relationships, mediated storytelling, and fiction about vulnerability and autonomy.

What these five books taught me about choosing my next read

The most revealing comparison is between Death and the Taxman and A Veritable Household Pet.

Both begin with a profound loss of bodily control. One gave me comic escape; the other prompted uncomfortable reflection. Their subject matter alone couldn’t predict how either would feel to read.

The same distinction applies to the nonfiction. Discovering the Club disturbed me more than its rating might suggest. A Double Life delivered a crime plot I found almost unbelievable, but astonishment wasn’t enough to lift it above three stars.

Then there’s It Runs in the Family: a reminder that a moderately rated book can still do something valuable by making me want to return.

For South African readers building a reading list, my advice from this selection is to choose the experience as carefully as the premise. A light supernatural comedy and a factual account of alleged abuse may both involve frightening situations, but they ask very different things of me.

I’d start with Death and the Taxman for enjoyment, continue It Runs in the Family out of curiosity, and approach the darker books with a clear sense of their subject matter and tone. The lasting insight from all five is that what happens in a book matters, but the way I’m invited to experience it matters just as much.