Fans pick 96 books like The Suspect

One of my favorite characters in this middle-grade mystery has always been Chris Theodorakis, the teen boy with an unnamed neurological condition that confines him to a wheelchair and, for the most part, to his house.

Even if he can’t leave home—and even if people often look away from him when he does—Chris plays a key role in solving the mystery at the heart of the book by being a keen observer of everything that passes in front of his window. I love how this novel depicts Chris’s inner world to young readers, including his awareness of how his condition affects others’ perceptions.

More importantly, it shows how much people with disabilities and illnesses still have to offer. 

I love this book because it’s the best fictional example I’ve ever seen of a character’s disability being eclipsed by his talent. Lincoln Rhyme is paralyzed, but his talent as a criminologist is far more important—and Deaver showcases Rhyme’s genius and passion as often as he details the difficulties of disability.

I find the book’s mystery compelling and the characters well-written, and I couldn’t get enough of the relationship between Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs. I’ve never seen a better portrayal of a partnership based solidly on mutual respect and admiration. I’m so grateful for how this story demonstrates that disability doesn’t need to stop you from making a real impact through the gifts and talents you’ve been given.

Will Trent is a most unlikely hero of a series, especially as a GBI (Georgia Bureau of Investigation) agent. Why? Will is severely dyslexic. He can barely read and write. So why is he a top agent? His disability gives him an unusual way of looking at crimes, making his disadvantage an important element in solving those crimes. Raised in a series of orphanages and cruel foster homes, Will is like the injured puppy you want to care for and make his life better. His relationship with women is complicated, including his first-love Angie, who shares some of the same orphanage experiences; Amanda, his demanding boss; Faith, his partner; and Sarah, his true love. Will is naïve and street-smart at the same time, which makes him a fascinating hero.

Traumatized at the age of eight, causing him to be mute for ten years, Michael has a talent. He can pick any lock, no matter how complicated, and that includes safes. You can see where I’m going with this, right? It doesn’t take long to find out where that questionable talent leads him, because he’s just been released from a ten-year stint in prison. Michael is a heartbreaking character who is unwittingly led down the wrong path. The author unfolds the story through Michael’s narrative, slipping back and forth in time to explain how he got where he is, culminating in the tragic moment that sent Michael into his world of silence. The story is original and creative in character delineation and suspense.

Iron House, short for the Iron Mountain Home for Boys, is a thriller that features orphaned brothers: weakling Julian, and his strong and fiercely protective brother, Michael. After being bullied to the point of cracking, Julian kills his abuser. Michael escapes Iron House and takes the blame as he leaves.

This leads the brothers on two very different paths. Julian is adopted and, though mentally unbalanced, becomes a writer of dark children’s stories. Michael is also adopted off the streets by the head of a crime syndicate who teaches him how to kill. Iron House is a complicated story of abuse, torment, and love. The book is not for the faint of heart.

Lana Rubicon is one of my favorite fictional characters in recent years. Real estate powerhouse and femme fatale, Lana is a force to be reckoned with—that is, until she gets cancer, goes through surgery and chemo, and moves in with her estranged daughter and granddaughter.

With work off-limits and her sense of purpose taken away, Lana becomes consumed with solving a murder. What I love about Lana is the wonderful balance of how the normally tough-as-nails woman accepts her vulnerability and, in the process, opens herself up to reconciling with her daughter and demonstrates just how strong she is. 

No mystery I’ve read has better captured how a chronic condition can redefine your sense of self better than The Black Hour.

This book hooked me on the first page, where we are introduced to Amelia, a sociology professor who is returning to work after being shot by a student the previous year. We witness her struggling to walk up a hill she used to climb without a second thought, and now it’s Mount Everest. She’s simultaneously vulnerable, determined, defiant, and just plain in pain.

Having a chronic illness myself, what makes this book resonate with me is the way Amelia constantly compares her post-injury self to her pre-injury self and must come to terms with the distance between those two versions.

This is not a best-seller graphic novel, you don’t see this book on every bookstore shelf. I discovered it because of Nina Mickwitz’s Documentary Comics. I ordered it from the library network that we had at my grad school. My degeneration is a Jewel of a book in many senses, it is a sincere book, a dialogue that goes through many channels: the images drawn, the text typed, and the way the book was made. The shifting in the line makes you think about the process and the author not just as a character but as a person experiencing the world from certain conditions and telling you about that experience.

Most people will have heard of Parkinson’s law: the idea that work expands to fill the time available for its completion, but he (drawing from his time as a naval historian) also developed the law of triviality: that an organization typically give devotes disproportionate time to insignificant issues.

The short book is full of many other insightful observations about organizational life and bureaucracy, including the tendency for officials to make more work for each, other leading to the famous prediction that the Royal Navy would eventually have more admirals than ships.

Franzen is at his best when depicting character, and The Corrections goes deep, creating a family drama that is rooted in detailed psychological portraits of his subjects.

In doing so, he meticulously builds their worlds, motivations, and fears, creating nuanced portrayals that not only reveal individual personality, but also the texture and color of life in America in the late 20th century.

Yet the true theme of the book is family dynamics: what does it mean when your mother insists that you come home for Christmas, and what does it mean when you don’t really want to go?