Saltwater by Katy Hays

Every reader has that moment when they realize they’ve been on a lucky streak. Book after book is a hit, recommendations keep paying off, and you start to think you’ve finally figured out how to avoid disappointing reads. Then a book like Saltwater comes along to humble you.

This was, unfortunately, that book for me.

I wanted to like Saltwater by Katy Hays. In fact, I expected to like it. The premise checked several boxes that usually work for me. A wealthy family. Long buried secrets. A glamorous setting. Suspicious deaths. A mystery that unfolds across generations. On paper, it sounded exactly like the kind of atmospheric thriller I’d happily lose an entire weekend to.

Instead, I spent most of my time wondering how many pages I had left.

One of the biggest challenges with reviewing books is separating a book that simply isn’t for me from one that I genuinely think misses the mark. There are plenty of wildly popular novels that don’t resonate with me personally, and that’s perfectly fine. Reading is subjective. What completely captivates one person might leave another reader cold.

With Saltwater, though, my issue wasn’t the premise.

It was the execution.

The novel centers on an extraordinarily wealthy family whose lives are built on privilege, secrets, and generations of dysfunction. Everyone seems to be hiding something, everyone has questionable motives, and nearly every relationship is tangled in deception. As an outsider looking in, there’s certainly some entertainment value in watching impossibly rich people create impossibly complicated problems for themselves.

The problem is that I never felt invited into the story.

Rather than becoming immersed in the mystery, I always felt like I was standing just outside of it, watching characters make increasingly dramatic decisions without ever becoming emotionally invested in any of them. The distance between me and the story never disappeared, and because of that, every new revelation landed with less impact than I think the author intended.

That became especially noticeable as the twists kept coming.

I love a good twist. In fact, some of my favorite thrillers are built around reveals that completely reshape everything you’ve read before. A well-earned twist is one of the most satisfying experiences a mystery can offer because it rewards careful reading while still managing to surprise you.

But there is a point where more twists stop making a story more interesting. Instead, they begin competing with one another.

That was my biggest frustration here. It often felt like every time the narrative had an opportunity to settle into a satisfying revelation, another twist immediately arrived to replace it. Then another. And another. Rather than giving previous developments time to breathe, the novel seemed determined to constantly outsmart itself.

Lately, I’ve started noticing this trend more and more in psychological thrillers.

Somewhere along the way, it feels like we’ve collectively decided that every thriller needs to end with six consecutive reveals, each one bigger than the last. I jokingly think of it as the “Freida McFadden effect.” Her popularity has clearly demonstrated how much readers enjoy constant surprises, and understandably, more authors seem eager to recreate that experience.

The problem is that surprises only matter when they’re supported by the story.

A twist shouldn’t exist simply because enough pages have passed since the last one.

By the end of Saltwater, I found myself wishing the novel had trusted its original mystery more. The premise was compelling enough that it didn’t need an endless stream of additional revelations. Sometimes resolving the questions you’ve already asked is far more satisfying than introducing entirely new ones.

That constant escalation also made the story harder for me to believe.

Mysteries ask readers to suspend disbelief to some degree, but they also rely on internal consistency. As each new revelation piled onto the last, I became less convinced by the world the novel had created. Instead of thinking, “I never saw that coming,” I found myself thinking, “Really? We’re doing this now too?”

Once that skepticism sets in, it’s difficult to recover.

The characters didn’t help much either.

They’re certainly memorable, but I never connected with any of them in a meaningful way. Everyone seemed to exist primarily as another potential suspect or another source of secrets rather than as fully realized people. That emotional distance made it difficult to care who was telling the truth, who was lying, or who ultimately came out ahead.

I actually finished this book a couple of weeks ago, and before sitting down to write this review, I had to look up a synopsis to remind myself exactly how everything unfolded.

Even books I dislike usually leave behind something memorable, whether it’s an unforgettable character, an ending that frustrated me, or a concept that sticks around despite imperfect execution. Saltwater simply… faded.

Honestly, by the time I finished, I felt like I deserved a participation trophy.

That probably sounds harsher than I intend, but I genuinely struggled to get through it. There were multiple points where I considered putting it down, and the only reason I kept going was because I wanted to see if the ending would justify the journey.

I never enjoy telling people to skip a book. Most of my reviews end with some version of, “It wasn’t for me, but I can see why others enjoyed it.” I like finding something positive to recommend because books are such personal experiences.

This time, though, I’m struggling.

If you’re someone who absolutely loves twist after twist after twist and enjoys stories where every chapter tries to pull the rug out from under you, you may have a much better experience than I did. Clearly, this novel has found its audience.

I just wasn’t part of it.

For me, Saltwater is a reminder that a compelling premise and gorgeous cover can only carry a story so far. Eventually, the characters need to matter, the twists need to feel earned, and the mystery needs to trust itself enough to stop chasing the next surprise.