A few summers ago, my wife and kids took a vacation to a fishing camp in middle-of-nowhere Canada, which to me is the opposite of fun. I declined. Instead I went by myself in Paris, where I intended to do some touristing, eat good rich food and spend mornings writing my fourth novel, which I was 100 pages into.

But as soon as I arrived to a city that was still reeling from a series of brutal terrorist attacks, a different book intruded on my consciousness. So I put aside that other 100 pages of the work in progress, and started afresh on a new page 1, with a laptop in a café in St-Germain-des-Prés every morning before setting out for an afternoon of walking, spending the whole day immersed in these imaginary characters, in this new story, trudging mile after mile, stopping on street corners to scribble notes.

In the middle of the week, I went to Shakespeare & Co. to have a drink with the proprietor Sylvia Whitman, and I ended up staying for five hours, talking to regulars who came and went, and Sylvia’s husband and son and shop dog, seeing this whole expat life in this remarkable bookstore that hosted events in the place facing Notre Dame, and the stream of visiting authors and the tumbleweed kids reshelving books, the entire terrific operation guided by this wonderful principle: be open to new people, be welcoming to strangers. It seems so obvious as a decent way to go about life. But it’s not usually a business plan. It’s a deliberate, purposeful choice of how to exist in the world.

Perhaps I was a little bit drunk, but I was struck by the importance of deliberateness, about everything in life. When I awoke in the morning, I felt more even more convinced of this, plus with the immense satisfaction that always comes from realizing that last night was not, after all, a mistake.

So I spent the rest of that week giving tremendous—nearly nonstop—thought to what my next book should be, which characters, what type of plot, themes, twists. What could the world possibly want from me that I can deliver? What would be the best sort of book for me to write at this stage of my career, at this moment in history? I’m a novelist, after all; anything is possible. I’m constrained by nothing except the limits of my imagination, and my willingness to challenge myself.

I came to a lot of conclusions.

Most important, I decided that my ideal next book would be one closely related to my 2012 debut, The Expats, but not a sequel. That it should be tied to real-world events, specifically to terrorism in Paris, but that it should also challenge our assumptions about terror’s goals, about its perpetrators. That the book should utilize my own personal up-close and traumatic experience of downtown New York on 9/11, but without being exploitative, without participating in the commodification of grief.

What else? That the central tensions should fuse personal, intimate conflict—within marriages, within friendships—with mortal jeopardy; that this combination of mundane life and extraordinary circumstances was the best aspect of The Expats, and is in fact what I love about thrillers in general. That the protagonist of that book is my most fully realized character, and that I wanted to further develop this person, this conflicted mother with her sputtering career, middle-age on the cusp of irrelevance. That I wanted these characters to confront their own mistakes, their own failings as humans, alongside the villains, the terrorists. Alongside me, too.

All this is an awful lot to figure out in just a few days. This can be a year’s worth of work, even a decade’s, a lifetime’s. I think this work is the hardest part of being a novelist: not the writing itself, but figuring out what to write. The typing of 100,000 words is the easy part.

And the most important part of this work didn’t happen at a desk, trying to bang out today’s arbitrary quota of words. This happened because I did this other mundane thing that writers do, that readers do: I whiled away an evening at an independent bookstore. In one of the great culinary capitals in the history of civilization, I dined on potato chips with plonk blanc. I talked to the owner, I talked to the staff, I talked to customers, all of us surrounded by shelves and stacks and leaning piles of books, by current bestsellers and Lost Generation classics, in this famous shop in a city where writers have been coming for hundreds of years to become who they want to be.

I didn’t even purchase anything that night. A bookstore is a place you can go even if you don’t want to buy a new book, a place to feel a kinship with other writers, with readers, to feel yourself—myself—in the context of all the other literature that’s out there in the world. A place where you can figure this out, or at least try: Where do I fit in?

Author photo by Sam McIntosh

In Lisa Unger’s superb new thriller The Stranger Inside, a vigilante is on the loose. But this killer only kills the worst of the worst: people who are almost certainly guilty of heinous crimes but got off on technicalities. We asked Unger which other fictional vigilantes fascinate her.

We love to see justice served, don’t we? Americans especially are spoon-fed the notion that evil never triumphs; cheaters never win; dictators will fall; criminals will go to jail. We want to believe it. We need to believe it. But when bad people get away with heinous crimes, are good people entitled to take the law into their own hands? And what is the difference between justice and revenge?

Vigilantism is a tricky enterprise. Most people who step into its house of mirrors are formed in trauma. They are often operating from a place of rage and fear. And in seeking their own brand of justice, they run the risk of becoming the darkness they despise. Confucius said that before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves—one is for yourself.

As a reader and as a writer, I’ve been drawn to the dark and damaged protagonist, the one who you’re not sure is the hero or the villain, the shadow you fear but also love a little bit. Because life is composed only of layers, and people are never just one thing. I want to dive in deep and be surprised by what I find.

Most of my protagonists have issues—mental illness, dysmorphia, addiction, PTSD. And I’ve wrestled with the concept of justice versus revenge in my fiction before. But Dr. Hank Reams in The Stranger Inside takes all of my questions on these topics to a new level. He’s broken; he does awful things. But he believes in his mission. That might be his most redeeming quality, and one Hank shares with some of my other favorite fictional vigilantes.

Batman

The Dark Knight turned 80 this year, a testament to our fascination with this type of character. Created by the artist Bob Cane and the writer Bill Finger, the Caped Crusader has had many incarnations in comics, graphic novels, television and film. I am a lifelong fan of this complicated, edgy icon. The ultimate vigilante—a brooding loner, living a double life—Batman was forged in trauma when a young Bruce Wayne watched his parents die. With all the resources at his disposal to make the bad men and women of Gotham pay, he’s the shadow that comes in the night to foil villains and keep innocents safe. Batman was probably my first and greatest vigilante love.

Flora Dane

We first meet Lisa Gardner’s Flora Dane in Find Her, the eighth novel in Gardner’s bestselling series featuring detective D.D. Warren. Flora is a college student who was kidnapped during spring break. Miraculously, she survived and must claw her way back to some kind of normal. But, try as you might, sometimes you just can’t let it go. Lisa Gardner is a true master of suspense and carefully reveals all the layers—including Flora’s nightmarish ordeal—that make this fighter what she becomes in the aftermath of unthinkable brutality.

Evan Smoak

Gregg Hurwitz is one of those rare authors whose writing is as stellar as his plots are breakneck, whose characters are as rich and textured as his tech and action sequences are super cool. In his five-book Orphan X series, Hurwitz introduces us to Evan Smoak. A powerless victim, on the run from bad guys, trapped in a situation that has no escape? Evan Smoak is just a phone call away. The only thing he asks in return is that you “pay it forward” by passing along his card to the next person who needs it. Part of a program that recruited orphans to be assassins, Smoak now uses his skills to deliver his own brand of justice, all while trying to stay ahead of the other orphans who are trying to kill him. Hurwitz digs deep into the nuances of the character, Smoak’s formative years, his memories of the man who raised him and his struggles to have meaningful relationships as an adult.

Dexter Morgan

In Jeff Lindsay’s Darkly Dreaming Dexter, readers were introduced to forensic blood splatter analyst Dexter Morgan. Lindsay’s character is fascinating because he’s a true violent sociopath, driven by homicidal urges. He carries with him “The Dark Passenger”—the voice in his head that prods him to kill. But Dexter kills rapists, murderers and other monsters not dissimilar to himself, largely because of the influence of his foster father, decorated cop Harry Morgan. Dad recognized Dexter’s proclivities early on and helped him to channel his impulses in a “positive” direction. Again, it’s the facets of this character that keep us deeply involved. The sociopath doesn’t have emotions as you and I know them, but Dexter has just enough humanity to hook us.

Hayley Stark

In the 2006 film Hard Candy, 14-year-old Haley Stark lures and captures a pedophile, then proceeds to torture him in his home. This is an edgy, uncomfortable story that delves into the strata of seduction and sadomasochism. Hayley Stark, brilliantly portrayed by Ellen Page, is a manipulative and ruthless captor as she prods and teases the bound Jeff Kohlver (played by Patrick Wilson) into revealing all his dark deeds and desires. The ending is brutal. But there’s a certain satisfaction in feeling like a monster got what he deserved and that there’s a Hayley Stark out there making sure bad men don’t get away with their crimes.

Author photo by Jay Nolan.

Caroline B. Cooney is a beloved and award-winning author of books for children and young adults. Though she’s always written thrillers and mysteries, her latest release is her first for an adult audience. In this essay, she explains why the twisty tale of Clemmie Lakefield prompted her to make the switch.

I once wrote a book called The Face on the Milk Carton, in which a young teenager recognizes herself on a missing child poster. How can she find out her history without destroying the family who brought her up? In that book and its sequels, Janie has made none of the decisions that put her in this situation; she is stuck with the choices of others.

But suppose you are 20 when things go wrong for you. A grown-up. You make a shocking decision to live your life as a different person under a different name. Suppose you pull this off for half a century. Think of the pain and loss, danger and anxiety! You give up family and background and friendships. Why? Because you did something so awful, that’s your only escape? Or did somebody else commit some terrible act? Or is it a combination of both?

I love plots where good people face bad choices. But for whom would I write this story? My YA readers couldn’t care less what a 70-something, semiretired Latin teacher might be up to. My readers would figure that she’s dead already, or might as well be. So, I made the exciting decision to switch from YA to adult mystery. And what a good time I am having.

Luckily, I was living in just the right setting: Sun City, a retirement community. The similarity of houses is unnerving. For a long time, I could find my own house only by clicking the automatic garage door opener to see which door went up. Sun City is remarkable for its friendliness. Show up at a club, a meeting or a game and you’re part of it. Nobody cares about your background. They may ask where you’re from, but then they move on to important things: Can you be club secretary? Are you free for pinochle? Not only is your house anonymous—so are your new friends. They might summarize their entire career by saying, “I was in marketing. Listen, are you trying out for the play?” And if they do ask about your background, you could say anything. Who’s to know? You could delete part of your life or add to it. And out of 3,000 residents, at least one is bound to have a shady background. Might as well be you.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of Before She Was Helen.

Your name in Sun City, and for the last 50 years, is Helen. You’re a good neighbor. Like many good neighbors here, you check on others routinely: people who may have had a fall, for example. And what if you go next door to check on your annoying and unpleasant neighbor because he is not answering the daily text you send at his request? And what if you go into that house and make an extraordinary discovery? You take a photo of it on your cell phone.

My age group loves cell phones and we use them constantly, but some of us have little grasp of what we’re doing and what our phones are capable of. So that’s our subplot: You get it wrong. And you know what? You’re cooked. Because you send this photograph to young people. After all, it’s cool and you rarely have anything cool for show or tell. You have forgotten that today’s photograph is forwarded, sometimes indefinitely.

And because what you photographed turns out to be stolen, somebody somewhere is going to notify the police. And you have left your fingerprints in that house. The fingerprints will tell the truth. You were somebody else before you were Helen.

But who?

And why?

And can you save her?

Or are you and the person you were before you became Helen going to be destroyed?

Author Elaine Murphy explains how she got sucked in by the queasily liberating allure of sociopaths—and why you will, too.

Most people use the terms sociopath and psychopath interchangeably, though they’re technically different personality disorders. In both cases, the person acts without conscience and without fear of consequences. They are prone to manipulation, impulsiveness and lies, and they act recklessly. The primary difference is that sociopaths have a bit more emotional wiggle room, if you will. They might have real feelings for one or two people, they might experience a tiny bit of empathy or guilt, and they might have some emotion (like rage), although the emotion is fleeting. 

We’ve all known someone who has one or many of these characteristics, and I’ve personally done my best to avoid them in my life. So why are we still drawn to reading about these types of people?

Because it’s fiction! It’s so fun to watch these characters in action precisely because the stories aren’t real. Sociopaths are impulsive and unpredictable, so we never know what they’re going to do next. But much like when we follow a story about a zombie apocalypse or killer mermaids, we have the safety net of our TV screen or the pages of a book to keep the real threat at a distance. (Keep in mind that not all sociopaths are violent, just as all non-sociopaths are not harmless.)

In Look What You Made Me Do, Carrie Lawrence’s older sister, Becca, is a 30-year-old sociopath. Becca has been killing people since high school and roping her sister in to help hide the bodies. There’s a moment in the book when Carrie notes, “Not once in my life have I been afraid for my sister. She’s always been the biggest predator in the room, the one sitting at the top of the food chain, picking and choosing her next meal.” Sociopaths have no regard for how their behavior affects others and enjoy a “rules don’t apply to me” type of attitude. 

Becca was an amazing character for me to explore as a writer because she’s never boring. She has an idea, and she acts on it. She plunges headlong into whatever motivates her in any given moment and never considers the consequences. Becca wants to break into a building? Let’s go! Learns there’s a serial killer in town and he’s stealing her thunder and needs to pay? Let’s take care of this immediately, no planning required! 

Becca does all those things we wish we could do but have been raised—and possess the empathy and guilt that guide “normal” behavior—not to. Have you ever been in a conversation and just desperately wanted the other person to shut up? Seen something more entertaining over their shoulder and wanted to walk away? Thought the pretzel in their hand looked delicious and wanted a bite? You can watch a character like Becca in that scenario and know you’re not in for a boring scene in which the other person drones on. She’s going to take action. Maybe she’ll simply walk off. Maybe she’ll take the pretzel with her. Maybe she’ll kill the other person and call it self-defense for trying to bore her to death. As a reader and a writer, these are the types of characters that keep me turning—and typing—the pages. 

Author photo by Laura Shortt Photography.

Dan Fesperman’s new espionage novel, The Cover Wife, could have been a soapy, simplistic experiment in dramatics. It follows CIA agent Claire Saylor, as she goes undercover as the wife of an academic in Hamburg, Germany, while a parallel plot line follows Mahmoud, a young Moroccan immigrant who’s being slowly sucked in by a radical group of men at his mosque. But Fesperman, a former journalist who covered both the Yugoslav civil wars and the Middle East in the wake of 9/11, roots Claire and Mahmoud’s stories firmly in reality. In this essay, he reveals why why an individual spy is far less powerful than you’d think, and why that makes their work all the more thrilling.

Behold the Super Spy, who knows all, anticipates all, and because of their operational autonomy, is almost always a step ahead of the competition. Need to Know? That’s a doctrine for chumps and desk jockeys.

Such is the misconception some readers have of CIA officers and others who work in the shadowy world of espionage, believing that spies step into their assignments in full knowledge of the stakes, the objective, the tasks their colleagues will be carrying out and so on.

Claire Saylor, my main CIA character in The Cover Wife, enviously wishes this were true. But, as just about anyone who’s worked in the spy business will tell you, it almost never is.

In a manuscript I’ve just completed, for example, here’s a bit of Claire’s thinking as she approaches an assignment for which she’s been told very little about what to expect. All she knows for sure is that she has been asked to show up for an appointed rendezvous with an unnamed source who will announce his presence with a designated code phrase:

“On its face, it was a simple chore with clear but limited instructions and open-ended possibilities. She was no stranger to work like that. At times, her job in Paris seemed to offer nothing but: Take this parcel and leave it there; Meet Man A and deliver his message to Woman B; Sit on that bench until 3 p.m., while noting every coming and going from the opposite doorway. And so on. Simple orders with complex possibilities.”

The archetype for the Super Spy, of course, is James Bond, although not even your most bedazzled reader seems to believe anymore that real spies live in his glitzy world of casinos, martinis and luxury cars, complete with dinner jacket and an exotic gun.

And, about those guns: There is no such thing as a standard issue weapon for a CIA officer, except for the ones who serve in war zones. Most spies travel unarmed. Not only is carrying a weapon illegal in most countries, it would be a giveaway that you were up to no good.

On the face of it, such limitations make the job seem less exciting. But for me—or, more to the point, for characters like Claire—it only adds to the challenge. She’s always trying to expand smaller roles into bigger ones. Withhold info about an upcoming task and she’ll try to find out more. Or, as I’ve described her: “Whenever an op confined her to the dark, she sought her own path toward the light. It kept the job interesting even as it tended to thwart professional advancement.”

It also helps when, as in The Cover Wife, her supervisor is willing to participate in the subversion, by assigning her additional duties which they both try to hide from their superiors. Layers upon layers.

I suppose this tendency of Claire’s is the spy novel’s equivalent of the detective novel trope of gumshoes who never play by the rules. And you certainly can’t let characters wander too far off the straight and narrow without risking implausibility. But when you’re valued for your ability to dig out forbidden knowledge, it’s not much of a leap to expect this inquisitiveness to exceed its limits. Although Claire, alas, will never enjoy the freedom of the Super Spy.

Lexie Elliott’s new book, How to Kill Your Best Friend, is perhaps the ideal escapist thriller: a possible murder, a friend group practically bursting at the seams with drama and some very twisted secrets, all against the backdrop of a luxury resort on a gorgeous, isolated island in Southeast Asia. We asked Elliott to share more suspenseful novels with stunning settings.

Writers: We’re a strange breed, and none more so than crime writers. Give us a beautiful villa overlooking a secluded beach and we immediately wonder what might be buried under the palm tree or weighted down at the bottom of the ocean. A sun-dappled European city has us looking past the landmarks and museums for what might be lurking in the narrow alleys. The contrast between the light and shade of human nature is never so stark as when played out in the most seductive of settings, the kind of places where people come to relax and forget their cares. Two of my novels (my debut, The French Girl, and my most recent novel, How To Kill Your Best Friend) feature exactly that delicious contrast, and with that in mind, I bring you some suggestions for thrillers where the gorgeous settings almost steal the scene.

The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith

Mongibello, San Remo, Rome, Venice, Greece: The locations in this novel read like a travel agent’s advertisement (though the first is admittedly fictional—Highsmith took inspiration for it from Positano, Italy). Readers will be captivated as the young, wealthy American trust fund socialites of the 1950s frolic through the radiant Italian Riviera, unaware of the twisted obsession growing in the heart of Tom Ripley. I discovered this novel in my teens and it awoke in me a longing (never quite lost) to travel to these beguiling destinations, where surely I would dress most fabulously to drink cocktails in the warm summer evenings at the bars of the most fashionable hotels and restaurants. . . . Highsmith unerringly captures the details of both the time and place, and it’s her depiction of the juxtaposition of the glorious sun-drenched locations with the darkness of the conniving, murder and betrayal carried out by our extraordinarily creepy antihero Tom that truly sets this novel apart. (Oh, and the 1999 movie, with Matt Damon as Tom and Jude Law as Dickie Greenleaf, is excellent too.)

Pompeii by Robert Harris

The weather. The landscape. The opulent villas. The togas. Harris’ tautly accurate prose transports the reader to the heart of ancient Italy in the heat of late summer, with a tale of sleazy urban corruption, 79 A.D.-style, with a rigorously intelligent hydraulic engineer to guide us through it—all while trying to keep hold of both his integrity and his life. I defy any reader to finish this novel without a burning desire to immediately visit the ruins of Pompeii (though preferably without Vesuvius erupting at the time).

The Chalet by Catherine Cooper

Glamourous locales aren’t always warm: A luxury ski chalet in the snow-covered Alps also ticks the box (Champagne in front of the log fire, anyone?). Cooper’s descriptions of the beautiful, glacial landscape place the reader squarely inside a dual-timeline tale of twisted revenge spanning two decades.

Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

The queen of crime and the original luxury train experience: It's a match made in exotically located thriller heaven that spans both hot and cold climes. The opening chapters are set in bustling Istanbul, before the action steams along to snow-covered Yugoslavia. With Poirot aboard, and the train itself providing the “locked room” setting, you know you are in for a treat.

Author photo © Nick James Photography.