It’s uncanny to drive by fictional crime scenes on my way to work.
I have always wondered what it would be like to live in the type of place featured in novels — whether Catcher in the Rye is more palatable with intimate knowledge of New York, or if Magpie Murders (Atlantic Crime) has another layer of whimsy for Londoners. Now, I realize it is downright discomfiting to find your home reflected in paper and ink, especially as the backdrop of a crime or tragedy.
Mindy Mejia’s The Whisper Place continues her Iowa Mysteries series, following cop-turned-private-investigator Max Summerlin and his psychic friend and work partner, Jonah Kendrick. They open the novel living paycheck to paycheck as they try to establish their client base; financial desperation leads Max to accept an impossible case from Charlie Ashlock. Charlie’s girlfriend has disappeared, and he is desperate to make sure she is OK — but he doesn’t know her real name and only has a single blurry picture with her.
The novel is told in first-person, alternating between Max, Jonah and the missing woman Darcy’s perspective. Darcy’s sections are glimpses back in time, spanning months before they catch up to the novel’s present. Her chapters provide an intimate, if eerie, look into the heart of a woman who both has been and will become a victim.
Mejia catches her stride with The Whisper Place, constructing a compelling thriller rooted in love and fear between people who care about each other. The scope of this novel is much smaller than the previous two in the series, but that tightened focus allows the book to flourish. Mejia takes time to explore human moments between the characters, from early mornings spent bellowing along to a playlist, to a double-date night. These gentler scenes underscore the humanity of the three main characters while serving as a sharp contrast to the horrors they face. The reader has a greater emotional investment in Max and Jonah, watching them navigate their friendship while also relying on each other professionally. Darcy’s past and current traumas become more visceral when held up to her joys.
Iowa City is represented so cleanly that it’s clear Mejia either spent time in the City of Literature or is very Google Maps adept. She describes Iowa City with exacting detail while being intentionally vague in her descriptions of other locations, underscoring how characters perceive time and space differently and to different ends. Max and Jonah view the city through the lens of their investigation, and Darcy experiences it as a place of joy. When the novel shifts to Illinois, details become blurrier, reflecting the impact trauma can have on the brain while also mirroring the lack of clarity within the investigation.
Mejia’s thriller is a love letter to the Midwest, as strange as that may seem given the graphic nature of the novel. The Midwest can be calm and chaotic, physical and supernatural; the repeated references to the wide-open spaces of Iowa are always framed in the positive, meant to highlight the strange beauty of nothing. Openness does not equate to absence in Mejia’s text. Rather, openness is meant to make room for everything humanity has to offer — the good and the bad thrown in stark relief.
This article was originally published in Little Village’s September 2025 issue.