The Dead Girls Book Club by Zia Rayyan Published by Zia Rayyan on January 31, 2026
Genres: Cozy / Mystery, Fiction, Thriller
Pages: 280
Format: Audiobook
Where to buy: Affiliate Link
Amelia knows her marriage isn't normal.
It's always been more than just her and Ken. Her detective husband is married to his cases, and more often than not, Amelia ends up sleeping alone.
When an exclusive book club extends her an invitation, Amelia finally finds the connection she's been craving.
But this isn't a normal book club. As her husband's investigation escalates, Amelia is beginning to see unsettling parallels between the women she's growing close to and the murders he can't seem to solve.
But these murders aren't random.
And neither was her invitation to the Dead Girls Book Club.
A fast-paced, twisty domestic psychological thriller for fans of Freida McFadden, Shari Lapena, and Daniel Hurst.
The Dead Girls Book Club by Zia Rayyan… oh. emm. gee. I have words, unfortunately, and none of them are particularly kind.
I wanted to love this book. The premise had me fully hooked. Secretive women? A creepy book club? Murder? Sign me up immediately. But the execution? Whew. This thing was choppier than an episode of Hell’s Kitchen during dinner service. The perspective bounced around so much I started feeling like a literary ping-pong ball. And yes, I’m keeping both metaphors because this book stressed me out enough to earn them.
The story itself also became painfully predictable. On top of that, the entire vibe read like the She-Woman Man-Hater’s Club (The Little Rascals) rebooted for 2026. Every man in this book is either incompetent, evil, disposable, or ultimately revealed to deserve the hatred directed at him. And look, I get it. I survived a divorce. I’ve had my “men are trash” era. But at some point, it starts feeling less like commentary and more like being repeatedly hit over the head with a wine bottle labeled ‘patriarchy.’
The main character joins this bizarre women’s book club, and on the very first night, they prick her finger and drink her blood—and she stays. Ma’am, absolutely not. That’s not quirky feminist bonding; that’s cult behavior. I don’t care how lonely you are—if a group of strangers starts doing blood rituals over charcuterie, you leave.
Then comes the big reveal that literally anyone with a pulse could see coming: the killer is tied to the Dead Girls themselves. And instead of horror or accountability, the reaction is basically, “Well, she’s one of us, so murder is understandable.” I actually wanted these women to be unhinged—that part could’ve been fun. But the problem is that the book wants me to take the insanity seriously while also expecting me to believe no one around them reacts like a normal human being.
Because apparently, in this universe, you can assault a man in front of thousands of employees and nobody calls the cops. A detective can get attacked, and somehow nobody contacts the wife because… reasons. The logic holding this plot together is hanging on by a single cursed thread.
There are moments where the atmosphere shines. The concept itself is genuinely good, and I can see the version of this story that could’ve absolutely devoured. But the uneven pacing, heavy-handed messaging, and lack of believable consequences constantly pulled me out.
In the end, this felt less like a sharp feminist thriller and more like a chaotic fever dream fueled by boxed wine, unresolved rage, and a Pinterest board labeled ‘female vengeance aesthetic.’
CW / TW:
This piece contains references to:
Physical Abuse, Murder, Death, Domestic Abuse, Infidelity
Recommended Age: 16+
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