If what gripped you in Die a Little was Lora King stalking the shadows of 1950s L.A., drawn to Alice Steele’s glamour even as the evidence turned grim, you’ll love how Sunburn heats that same noir fatalism to a slow boil. Polly Costello walks out on her family and into a small-town bar, where a man starts watching her—just as Lora begins watching Alice. As secrets pile up and violence nudges closer, Lippman captures that same sticky, morally smoky air where longing and suspicion can’t be pulled apart.

Like Lora’s uneasy fixation on Alice—snooping, second-guessing, and blurring curiosity with desire—In a Lonely Place coils itself around a mind you’re desperate to understand and afraid to inhabit. Set in postwar Los Angeles, Hughes’s tale tracks a charming ex-flyer whose inner monologue tightens like a noose. The way Abbott lets you feel Lora’s rationalizations as she edges toward complicity finds an eerie echo in Hughes’s intimate, unsettling portrait of self-justification.

If you were captivated by how Lora both mistrusts and longs for Alice—digging into shady Hollywood parties and a dead woman linked to Alice’s past while compromising herself—you’ll appreciate Tom Ripley’s seduction of readerly sympathy even as he crosses lines. Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley explores the same intoxicating pull of charisma and the moral gray zones where fascination turns into action you can’t take back.

Lora’s voice in Die a Little—her suspicions about Alice, the selective revelations, the way her desire tints every clue—makes you question how clearly she sees. In Sharp Objects, Camille Preaker’s return to her hometown to cover a murder story becomes an equally treacherous inner excavation. As with Lora investigating Alice’s past and a woman’s suspicious death, every discovery in Flynn’s novel feels filtered through a narrator whose needs and wounds warp the picture in chilling ways.

If the intimate scale of Die a Little worked for you—Lora, her brother Bill, and Alice circling each other in living rooms, kitchens, and dim nightspots while a single death darkens everything—Beast in View delivers that same taut, personal menace. Millar builds dread through phone calls, hallway encounters, and private humiliations, letting domestic spaces and small social circles generate the kind of pressure that pushed Lora toward dangerous choices.