Vague Spoilers Ahead: 
 Yikes. This book was so terribly written that I felt personally insulted. BUT I must say, I read the whole thing because I was hope-hope-hoping that a twist ending was awaiting me. And it was. At the verrrrrrry, very end you get the big reveal. Now I'm just trying to figure out if it was worth it to torture myself through gutless writing (the number of times she used the word "thrust" blew my mind) and cliches. Shit like this: "We fall into oblivion this way, into a world where nothing matters. Nothing but us." "She drops the blanket at the door. 'I can't remember the last time anyone told me I was beautiful.'" "She was a different woman. I was a different man." I mean, this shit is hard to read. And this is shit coming from a kidnapper and his victim. And we're okay with that??!!? This stockholm syndrome pregnancy "love story" is treated as a beautiful, heart-breaking romance. Oh my fucking God. Who are the suckers buying into this? Where are they? I want to meet them! I have some questions! 
 Early on, before I realized that this was a terrible romance novel being falsely marketed as Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl I underlined the following passage because it annoyed me in ways I'm not even sure I completely understand: 
 And she lets her voice trail off. From behind, I see her shoulders quake, and watch as the Italian sausage absorbs her tears. She could blame the onions, but she doesn't. I don't stare. I lose myself in the mozzarella cheese. She finds a clove of garlic and begins to smash the damn thing with the palm of her hand. I didn't know Mrs. Dennett had it in her. Seems to be amazingly therapeutic. Into the skillet the garlic goes, and she yanks jars of seasoning--basil and fennel, salt and pepper--from a cabinet and slams them to the granite countertop. The acrylic salt shaker misses the edge of the countertop and tumbles to the hardwood floor. It doesn't break, but thee salt spills. We stare at the collection of white crystals on the floor, thinking the same thing: bad luck. Is it seven years? I don't know. Regardless, I insist, "Left shoulder." 
 Sometimes a book is so bad that it's fun to hate-read the whole way through it. To turn page after page going "I can't believe how awful this is!" It's like watching a car crash. I'm a bad person. And that's why I finished this book. Because I'm awful and masochistic. 
 If you aren't bothered by painful writing and the idea of a twist ending is tempting, give this book a shot. I don't regret reading it for some reason. But eww, really eww.