11/08/2025
I picked up Then She Was Gone thinking I’d read only a few chapters before bed. But two days later, I was still there, eyes burning, saying “just one more chapter” until there were no chapters left. I cried. I cheered. I gasped. And at some point, I just sat still, stunned, because Lisa Jewell had done something cruel and beautiful; she’d made me care too much.
This book is about Laurel — a woman haunted by the ghost of her daughter, Ellie, who vanished ten years ago. Ellie Mack was fifteen when she disappeared. One ordinary afternoon — no warning, no reason, just gone. Ten years later, her mother Laurel is still trapped inside that afternoon. The world moved on, but she didn’t. How could she? There’s a particular kind of grief that doesn’t fade — it just changes shape, finds new corners of your soul to live in. Laurel’s pain felt so real, so textured, I could almost touch it.
Jewell writes about grief in the smallest, most devastating details, not in grand, sweeping gestures; she writes in the way Laurel sets two plates at the table out of habit, or how she can’t bring herself to walk past Ellie’s old room. It’s those quiet moments that destroy you, because they whisper what loss really sounds like: silence.
And then comes Floyd — kind, intelligent, disarmingly normal — and for the first time in a decade, something in her stirs. Hope, maybe. Or the faint memory of what it felt like to be alive. But when Laurel meets his nine-year-old daughter, Poppy, who looks unnervingly like Ellie — same smile, same eyes, same way of tilting her head — the fragile peace she’s been building begins to crack. You can almost feel Laurel slipping again, not into madness, but into memory.
Reading this felt like walking through fog. You think you know where you’re going, but Jewell keeps turning you around until you’re lost in the maze of love, guilt, and obsession. Every revelation lands like a slow bruise, quiet, but deep.
What makes Then She Was Gone unforgettable isn’t just the mystery. It’s the humanity. The characters don’t feel written, they feel human, remembered. I could see them, hear them, ache for them. Laurel’s exhaustion, Floyd’s charm, Ellie’s light, they all linger in my memory. The story is dark, yes. Unsettling. But in the most honest way. Because grief is dark. Healing is messy. And closure, when it finally comes, never looks like you expect it to.
When I finished, I just sat there in silence. I realized I wasn’t only mourning Ellie; I was mourning every version of myself that had ever waited for an answer that never came. That’s what this book does, it reaches into the tender parts of you, the ones that still believe in resolution, and reminds you that even when the truth finally arrives, it can still break your heart.
There were parts that bothered me, details I can’t share with you without spoiling the story, but even those added to the ache. Because life rarely gives us neat resolutions. Still, I appreciated how Jewell offered some measure of closure. I think I needed that. Maybe because, like Laurel, I know what it’s like to live inside unanswered questions. And maybe healing begins not when everything is fixed, but when we stop demanding perfect endings.
But some answers hurt. Some truths don’t set you free; they just give your pain a shape, a name. Jewell understands that. She doesn’t hand you healing; she hands you honesty. She has this uncanny gift of writing darkness with tenderness. Of showing how love and pain are always touching hands, how grief and hope live in the same room.
Then She Was Gone isn’t just a thriller you read and forget, it is one that stays. It lingers — in the quiet moments, in the late-night stillness, in that ache behind your ribs when you remember what it felt like to lose something you couldn’t name. It’s a portrait of the after — after the search teams leave, after the headlines fade, after everyone else has moved on and you’re still frozen in that same unbearable moment, trying to remember what hope used to feel like.
I’ll carry it with me for a long time. Not because it ended perfectly. but because it reminded me that closure doesn’t erase loss; it only teaches you how to hold it without breaking. Maybe that’s what the best stories do, they leave you trembling, a little more fragile, but somehow, more I picked up Then She Was Gone thinking I’d read only a few chapters before bed. But two days later, I was still there, eyes burning, saying “just one more chapter” until there were no chapters left. I cried. I cheered. I gasped. And at some point, I just sat still, stunned, because Lisa Jewell had done something cruel and beautiful; she’d made me care too much.
This book is about Laurel — a woman haunted by the ghost of her daughter, Ellie, who vanished ten years ago. Ellie Mack was fifteen when she disappeared. One ordinary afternoon — no warning, no reason, just gone. Ten years later, her mother Laurel is still trapped inside that afternoon. The world moved on, but she didn’t. How could she? There’s a particular kind of grief that doesn’t fade — it just changes shape, finds new corners of your soul to live in. Laurel’s pain felt so real, so textured, I could almost touch it.
Jewell writes about grief in the smallest, most devastating details, not in grand, sweeping gestures; she writes in the way Laurel sets two plates at the table out of habit, or how she can’t bring herself to walk past Ellie’s old room. It’s those quiet moments that destroy you, because they whisper what loss really sounds like: silence.
And then comes Floyd — kind, intelligent, disarmingly normal — and for the first time in a decade, something in her stirs. Hope, maybe. Or the faint memory of what it felt like to be alive. But when Laurel meets his nine-year-old daughter, Poppy, who looks unnervingly like Ellie — same smile, same eyes, same way of tilting her head — the fragile peace she’s been building begins to crack. You can almost feel Laurel slipping again, not into madness, but into memory.
Reading this felt like walking through fog. You think you know where you’re going, but Jewell keeps turning you around until you’re lost in the maze of love, guilt, and obsession. Every revelation lands like a slow bruise, quiet, but deep.
What makes Then She Was Gone unforgettable isn’t just the mystery. It’s the humanity. The characters don’t feel written, they feel human, remembered. I could see them, hear them, ache for them. Laurel’s exhaustion, Floyd’s charm, Ellie’s light, they all linger in my memory. The story is dark, yes. Unsettling. But in the most honest way. Because grief is dark. Healing is messy. And closure, when it finally comes, never looks like you expect it to.
When I finished, I just sat there in silence. I realized I wasn’t only mourning Ellie; I was mourning every version of myself that had ever waited for an answer that never came. That’s what this book does, it reaches into the tender parts of you, the ones that still believe in resolution, and reminds you that even when the truth finally arrives, it can still break your heart.
There were parts that bothered me, details I can’t share with you without spoiling the story, but even those added to the ache. Because life rarely gives us neat resolutions. Still, I appreciated how Jewell offered some measure of closure. I think I needed that. Maybe because, like Laurel, I know what it’s like to live inside unanswered questions. And maybe healing begins not when everything is fixed, but when we stop demanding perfect endings.
But some answers hurt. Some truths don’t set you free; they just give your pain a shape, a name. Jewell understands that. She doesn’t hand you healing; she hands you honesty. She has this uncanny gift of writing darkness with tenderness. Of showing how love and pain are always touching hands, how grief and hope live in the same room.
Then She Was Gone isn’t just a thriller you read and forget, it is one that stays. It lingers — in the quiet moments, in the late-night stillness, in that ache behind your ribs when you remember what it felt like to lose something you couldn’t name. It’s a portrait of the after — after the search teams leave, after the headlines fade, after everyone else has moved on and you’re still frozen in that same unbearable moment, trying to remember what hope used to feel like.
I’ll carry it with me for a long time. Not because it ended perfectly. but because it reminded me that closure doesn’t erase loss; it only teaches you how to hold it without breaking. Maybe that’s what the best stories do, they leave you trembling, a little more fragile, but somehow, more alive.