Poor Karen Elmes is already dead when readers meet Viv Klein, a down-on-her-luck photographer who is skewered on social media for snapping the deceased woman’s photograph after stumbling upon her body in a forlorn back alley. Abby Katz is an intrepid reporter dispatched by the LA Timesto profile the hard-pressed young photographer. Just what makes her tick? And why did she do what she did? Though conflicted about her actions in the back alley, Viv nevertheless decides that a weird job offer to photograph a wealthy man’s recently deceased mother is just too lucrative to pass up. After all, she’s told, death masks go back to King Tut’s time and even became a proto-social media phenomenon in the 19th century when good folks felt that using the novel invention of photography was a great way to preserve their dearly departed loved ones at the moment of death. (“The Victorians got all creepy about it when photography became more affordable, and they would take death portraits of their children staged with their families. Disturbing, I know.”) The creep factor is, indeed, off the charts (the proceedings are chilling long before additional bodies start hitting the floor), but Sanders Brooks’ steady and clear-eyed approach to the ghastly photo shoots makes them seem entirely plausible. The author keeps her energetic narrative tightly focused on the lead characters, along with a few other supporting players, in a continuously revolving POV storytelling arc that manages to evoke both intimacy and urgency throughout. As the dark but familiar world Viv and Abby inhabit grows increasingly perilous, the danger feels uncomfortably palpable. Brooks explores heavy questions about the morality of social media with a light, mordant touch. Narrative shifts to a detached Discord chat between true-crime enthusiasts trying to puzzle out what’s going on and news accounts about the diabolical deeds allow readers to zoom out and get their bearings before being plunged back down the claustrophobic LA streets where Viv plies her stock in trade.

Jordan McClellan is the youngest child of Rachel and Eamon, two Oklahoma farmers at the turn of the 20th century. His siblings, Danny and Becky, are both respected athletes—Danny is a draft pick for the St. Louis Cardinals baseball team, and Becky’s the star of her high school basketball team. Jordan, however, is more academically inclined and is at odds with his emotionally distant and abusive father. “I was fifteen when my father hit me,” Logan writes early on, beginning a story that captures the tension of the fraught family dynamic in simple, clear prose. After graduating high school as valedictorian and heading to college on scholarship, Jordan inadvertently causes an accident that injures both his father and his brother, ending his brother’s baseball career. Despite a promising career teaching literature at Oklahoma City University, guilt and depression lead Jordan to the bottle, and after a fateful night at a speakeasy, he gets behind the wheel of a car and causes the death of a pedestrian. Logan’s novel follows Jordan after he’s sentenced to four years in prison for manslaughter and tries to rebuild his life, all in the shadow of World War II, where his eldest brother has become a pilot. The driving force of the novel is whether the McClellan family—and particularly Jordan and Eamon—can heal after multiple tragedies, and if literature, and the life of the mind, can serve as a refuge in crises. In Jordan, Logan has crafted a compelling narrator and central character, whose faults feel realistic and whose emotional journey will keep readers engaged. The novel covers a vast span of time (from the late 1800s at the book’s opening, all the way through the 1950s), causing certain plot points to feel rushed, such as Jordan’s life in prison, which is effectively the core of the book. However, the narrative arc is nonetheless satisfying—occasionally moving, and even terrifying at times.

Mechanic was 14 years old when his mother died of cancer. Before she died, the family took a trip to the Bahamas so she could undergo an experimental treatment. By the time they got home, though, it was clear that the treatment had not worked, and that his mother was on the verge of death. When she did die, Jesse, devastated, was unable to function. He neglected his schoolwork, not because he wasn’t interested in learning, but because he couldn’t concentrate—a situation that may be partially a result of “ADHD, obsessive compulsive disorder, and intrusive thoughts,” all of which are issues that persisted throughout his adulthood. Eventually, Mechanic found a community of fellow “bad kids,” all of whom “went through something” that “dented our innocence.” Mechanic is convinced that these peers, along with punk and hip-hop, saved his life. After high school, the author worked at a bookstore, cultivating a love of literature and eventually graduating from college with honors. Years later, he became a father and saw his mother’s death in a new light, understanding how much it must have hurt to lose her chance to know her children as they grew older. Mechanic’s illustrations are vibrant and richly detailed, and his use of patterning is especially impressive. This is a raw account of grieving. While the prose feels overwritten at times, overall it’s a tender and frank memoir that will resonate with readers.

The author uses the structure of the classic children’s song “The Wheels on the Bus” to introduce the idea of chakra and its flow. Beginning with the overall energy in the body going “round and round,” each subsequent verse focuses on a different part, moving from the bottom up. Readers are first encouraged to focus on planting their feet (“Our feet on the ground are rooted down”) before moving up to the hips (“Our hips sway from side to side”). Next is the “middle of our belly” that “pumps in and out” and the heart that thumps. Voices then say “peace and love” while eyes move. Lastly, the “thoughts in our mind say I belong”; “helping hands” open and shut before the whole thing loops back to the first verse. Each section concludes with “all through the crown” replacing the “all through the town” lyric from the original song. Nelsen’s illustrations feature close-ups of the body parts being sung about in each verse. Both boys and girls are shown, all of whom are depicted with brownish orange skin. The images are bright and cartoonish, with bold lines and lots of saturated color that perfectly channel the energy from the song and make it visual. A concluding note to parents that briefly discusses the different chakras used in the book (Third-Eye Chakra, Sacral Chakra, and so on) and tips for meditation provides helpful clarity and context for the text. The book does a wonderful job of encouraging children to get up and move while singing along—though some may find that moving one’s eyes “up and down” simply results in a bout of dizziness. Ultimately, Glowacki manages to seamlessly blend silly dancing and singing with a subtle lesson in self-care.

Seventeen-year-old Hazel Perez, who’s Puerto Rican and Polish American, is trying to keep her head down and blend in, which is easy until her former best friend, Becca Mercer, invites her to be part of their U.S. history class’s group project about a local historical landmark. White-presenting Becca’s family owns the land where Oakwell Farms, a school for “delinquent girls”—established in the 19th century and closed only in recent decades—was located. After a prank goes wrong, and Hazel suffers a serious fall, strange things begin happening: She experiences hallucinations and violent urges. Determined to get to the bottom of everything, she starts digging into The Farm’s history, only to uncover dark secrets going back decades. Wallach explores the gritty, abhorrent reality of the “troubled teen” industry, using The Farm as a stand-in for a number of actual reform schools with disturbing legacies and intensifying the horrific nature of the story. Rooted more in plot and atmosphere than deep characterization, this novel will leave readers wondering what the teens who lived through these nightmares would say if they could tell their stories. The compelling storytelling will keep fans of reality-based horror turning the pages.