This past Christmas, I asked for the new Michael Connelly novel, “The Gods of Guilt,” and because she’s awesome, my mother bought it for me. I started reading it immediately. Well, I mean, like, not right after I opened it because that would be rude to blow off the family celebration (even though I totally considered it).
Fast forward three months. The book quickly went from being the first thing I picked up when I had free time, to being put in the basket under the console of my minivan and only coming out when I waited in the pickup lane at school. Ooooh, that’s a bad sign. That’s basically basket purgatory for a book.
I finally finished it this week and now I have just one question: Michael Connelly, where did your mojo go, son?