If Micah’s promises to “finally tell the truth” and her shifting story about Zach and the secret she swears she’s hiding pulled you in, you’ll love the way We Were Liars lets Cadence Sinclair Eastman narrate her own foggy, fractured summer on Beechwood Island. As Cadence tries to recall what really happened with her cousins and Gat, every chapter nudges you to question her memory the same way you questioned Micah’s werewolf confession and the many versions of the night Zach died. It’s that same delicious tension: you’re close enough to touch the truth—but the storyteller keeps moving it.

If the Before/After structure around Zach’s death and Micah’s incremental reveals hooked you, Charm & Strange mirrors that rhythm with chapters that oscillate between past and present as Andrew Winston Winters (Drew) circles a violent secret. Like Micah’s midnight runs and her ominous hints about what she becomes, Drew is obsessed with the possibility that there’s a monster inside him. The nonlinear unwind keeps you piecing together what really happened—until the final snap of truth lands with the same chilling clarity.

If you were captivated by being trapped in Micah’s mind—her compulsions, her rules about truth, her guilt spirals over Zach—Wintergirls puts you just as close to Lia Overbrook as she narrates the aftermath of her best friend Cassie’s death. Lia’s voice is confessional and relentless, full of crossed‑out thoughts, self‑bargains, and razor‑sharp honesty that stings as much as it heals. The psychological intensity mirrors Micah’s interior spiral, turning every page into a confrontation with what you’d rather not admit.

If Micah’s evolving account of Zach’s death and the late‑stage rug pulls kept you re‑evaluating every clue, Dangerous Girls delivers that same whiplash. Anna and her friends vacation in Aruba; then Elise is murdered, and Anna’s version of events is picked apart by cops, courts, and the media. Like parsing Micah’s lies, you’ll keep second‑guessing texts, alibis, and “facts” until the final reveal reframes everything you thought you knew.

If living inside Micah’s first‑person confession—hearing only what she chooses to tell you about Zach, her family, and that "condition"—kept you compulsively turning pages, The Adoration of Jenna Fox uses a similarly intimate voice. After waking from a coma, Jenna records her thoughts as she watches old home videos and senses that the people she loves are hiding something enormous. As with Micah’s story, each chapter tightens the gap between what the narrator believes and what actually happened, until identity and truth collide.