If you loved how Anna Fox watches the Russells from her window, second-guessing what she saw through a haze of wine and pills, you’ll click with Rachel Watson peering out of a commuter train, fixating on a couple she glimpses from the carriage. Like Anna’s foggy recollections of the night everything goes wrong, Rachel’s blackout gaps and manipulations from those around her keep you doubting every memory and motive. Both stories twist everyday voyeurism into dread, letting a fractured narrator lead you into a truth you won’t see coming.

The way revelations about the Russells—and Anna’s own past—flip your understanding in The Woman in the Window is mirrored by the seismic mid-story shift in Gone Girl. As Nick Dunne and Amy Elliott Dunne trade narratives, the book weaponizes perception just like Anna’s misread moments at the window. If you relished that electric snap-into-place feeling when the truth begins to surface around Ethan and the neighbors, Flynn’s masterstroke of a turn will scratch the same itch—only darker and sharper.

Anna’s sessions with Dr. Fielding, her fixation on classic noir, and the way grief distorts her judgment echo in The Silent Patient, where psychotherapist Theo Faber tries to crack why painter Alicia Berenson stopped speaking after a shocking act. As Theo sifts through Alicia’s artwork and history, it mirrors how clues around Anna—photos, messages, chance visits from Ethan—slowly assemble into a psychological portrait. If you were drawn to the intimate anatomy of trauma behind the suspense, this one drills even deeper.

Like Anna’s day-by-day, wine-clouded attempts to trust her senses and reconstruct what happened across the street, Christine Lucas must rebuild her life each morning, relying on a secret journal to outpace a mind that resets overnight. The domestic confines, careful notes, and incremental reveals mirror Anna’s slow, nerve-scraping climb toward clarity about the Russells and her own past. If you appreciated that simmering, measured escalation, this will keep you holding your breath.

Anna’s agoraphobia turns her townhouse and the Russells’ home into a pressure cooker; The Couple Next Door traps you in adjoining houses where a dinner party, a baby monitor, and a vanished child spark a spiral of blame. As with Anna watching through glass—misreading gestures, catching fragments—tiny domestic moments become ominous evidence. If that claustrophobic, across-the-wall tension gripped you when Anna fixated on the family next door, this will have you eyeing your own neighbors.