But then I read the back:
Carl Mørck used to be one of Copenhagen’s best homicide detectives. Then a hail of bullets destroyed the lives of two fellow cops, and Carl—who didn’t draw his weapon—blames himself. So a promotion is the last thing he expects. But Department Q is a department of one, and Carl’s got only a stack of Copenhagen’s coldest cases for company. His colleagues snicker, but Carl may have the last laugh, because one file keeps nagging at him: a liberal politician vanished five years earlier and is presumed dead. But she isn’t dead … yet.
Um... what was this? Detective/murder mystery novels are not something I typically read or enjoy, and this one sounded absolutely terrible. The main character seemed totally un-relatable, I hate anything even vaguely political, and did I mention that I never read crime novels? I was definitely questioning the sanity of my generally reliable co-workers/fellow book nerds. This was obviously some sort of mistake. So I threw the book on my nightstand for about a week, and occasionally gave it a skeptical glace over the pages of US Weekly.
Then, one rainy day after I had finally trudged through a mediocre baseball book and exhausted my supply of InStyle and Pottery Barn catalogs, I decided to take a glance at the first few pages.
It was at about this point that no one saw me or spoke to me for a couple days. I barely made it to work, and Stewart was not allowed to communicate with me in the evenings. Because I was totally engrossed in the.best.book.ever.
I promise, you won't be disappointed!