Fog At Noon

In the alluring if diffuse latest from González (Difficult Light), a woman’s disappearance prompts bitterness, grief, and mordantly funny speculation from her loved ones. Julia, a wealthy and marginally well-known poet in Colombia, ends her fourth marriage when her husband, Raúl, is no longer able to feign respect for her poetry. After Julia marries another man, she goes missing. Raúl’s sister, Raquel, then finds poems on Julia’s blog about “murdering” her marriage to Raúl, and about Raúl “as well, murdered.” Reflecting on the irony that Julia is the one who’s gone missing, Raquel doubts she will be found, “much less found alive.” González leans into the macabre turn—chapters narrated by Julia suggest she might be speaking from beyond the grave (“My poetry was delicate and also complex, like the irises that bloomed around the borders of the flagstone patio at my ranch”), and Raquel jokes to Raúl that Julia might be a “zombie or something,” and that even in life “she was pretty braindead already.” The plot morphs into a noirish whodunit, which feels underdeveloped, as do the characters’ meditations on loss, but the acidic humor keep the pages turning. It’s worth a look. (June)