Theo Decker dreamt of his mother while he was in Amsterdam, and as he reflects, he shares with us the many twists and turns before he wound up in Amsterdam, beginning, of course, with the death of his mother in a terror attack at the Met, where they were spending a couple of hours enjoying the artwork before a meeting at Theo’s school to explain his suspension. The first hundred or so pages cover Theo’s shock, which is beautifully rendered and utterly heartbroken. This loss, as a thirteen-year-old, is unfathomable, and Theo truly cannot wrap his mind around the possibility. From there, Theo’s childhood unravels into a life of wandering. When his father shows up unexpectedly with his new girlfriend, Theo is forced to move from New York (where he’s been staying with a classmate’s family) to Las Vegas, where he learns to drown his devastation with drugs and alcohol, alongside new friend Boris. 

In many ways, Boris is a toxic friend, and I couldn’t bring myself to like him over the course of the novel, despite his apparent love for Theo. He just continually did the wrong thing and led Theo down paths that made his life worse. On the other hand, I loved Pippa, the young girl who also survived the attack and who was connected to Theo incidentally by her grandfather. At the museum, Theo was struck by the red-headed girl and was following her in the very moment that the blast sounded. In shock, Theo finds Welty buried under the shrapnel and begins a conversation with him. Welty passes Theo a ring and an address, leading him to Hobie, who becomes the stalwart companion that Theo has needed—a sort-of parent figure, but mostly a mentor. 

As Theo leaves and returns to New York, I was most struck by how he remained stuck in his childhood, talking to the same people, leaning on the same supports. The paralysis of childhood trauma is chilling throughout the novel, and I was moved by Tartt’s descriptions, even as I found myself begging Theo to make different decisions (particularly when Boris was involved). 

The last hundred pages of the novel became a bit too dramatic and prosaic for my tastes, which is why I bumped it down a half star. Though I was fully immersed in the stress and tension throughout most of the book,

Boris’s stealing the painting made me unduly angry, and the resolution with the art heist and the murder was excessively dramatic, especially in a book that had been so quietly tense up until that point

. 

I also didn’t love the reflections directly addressed to the reader for the last ten pages or so. 


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