A dedicated journalist unearths a generations-old family secret—and a connection to a string of missing girls that hits way too close to home—in this gripping debut novel.

In the wake of her grandmother’s passing, Sydney Singleton finds a hidden photograph of a little girl who looks more like Sydney than her own sister, or mother. She soon discovers the mystery girl in the photograph is her aunt, Carol, who was one of six local North Carolina Black girls to go missing in the 1960s. For the last several decades, not a soul has talked about Carol or what really happened to her. With her grandmother gone and Sydney looking to start a family of her own, she is determined to unravel the truth behind her long-lost aunt and the sinister silence surrounding her.

Unfortunately, this is familiar territory for Sydney. Several years prior, working the crime beat as a journalist on the case of another missing girl, her obsession eventually led to a psychotic break. And now, in the suffocating grip of fertility treatments and a marriage that’s beginning to crumble, Sydney’s relentless pursuit might just lead her down the same path of destruction. As she delves deeper into Carol’s fate, her own troubled past resurfaces, clawing its way to the surface with a vengeance. The web of secrets and lies entangling her family leaves Sydney questioning everything—her fixation on the missing girls, her future as a mom, and everyone she’s come to trust.

Delving into family, community, secrets, and motherhood, We Don’t Talk About Carol is a gripping and deeply emotional story about overcoming the rotten roots of your family tree—and what we’ll do for those we love.

I went through a true crime phase a few years ago. Podcasts, documentaries, books—I inhaled them all. But somewhere in the middle of the pandemic, my appetite soured. The stories felt exploitative, especially since they so often centered on missing and murdered white women while women of color were left in the shadows. That’s why this book felt so refreshing, even while it’s a heavy read. It takes the true crime obsession many of us recognize and flips it into something purposeful, something that forces us to look at who gets remembered and who gets erased.

The book follows Sydney Singleton, a woman who, after her grandmother’s passing, discovers a photograph of a little girl who looks uncannily like her. This turns out to be Carol, Sydney’s aunt, one of six Black girls who went missing in 1960s North Carolina. The family never spoke about Carol, and Sydney is determined to change that. With her own life already stretched thin (fertility treatments, a faltering marriage, and the scars of a past breakdown after covering a different missing girl’s case as a journalist) Sydney still throws herself headfirst into finding out what really happened.

Sydney is a character who I instantly connected with. She’s driven and sharp. Her obsession is both her greatest strength and her biggest danger. You feel her desperation, not only to uncover the truth for her aunt and the other missing girls, but to prove something to herself. Berry does an excellent job showing how personal history and unresolved grief can fuel someone to push far past healthy limits.

The pacing leans into that tension. Early on, the story feels like you’re uncovering layers of dust. Then, as Sydney digs deeper, the tempo accelerates and the mystery tightens around her. I never felt bored, and even though I tried to piece things together like the armchair detective I am, the final reveal still blindsided me. That’s rare for me with mystery novels, so major points for that.

What stood out most, though, was the way Berry handled the bigger picture. This isn’t just about one missing girl—it’s about how whole communities can be dismissed and silenced. It’s about what happens when some stories get the spotlight and others don’t. The book doesn’t lecture; it shows. By tying the fate of Carol and the other girls to Sydney’s own unraveling and rebuilding, Berry underscores the weight of generational silence and the cost of keeping those doors closed.

If I had one small gripe, it’s that the heaviness of Sydney’s personal struggles sometimes risked overshadowing the central mystery. Her fertility challenges and marriage woes pile on top of her family’s secrets and her investigative obsession, making her life feel like one long avalanche. But in a way, I guess maybe that was the point. Sydney’s whole existence is precarious, and you’re meant to feel how easily she could crumble under the pressure.

This was a great read and brought up some great questions. It’s a surprising mystery with real heart, while shedding light on a real problem. How many “Carols” have been lost in the cracks of history and silence? If you’re into mysteries that feel relevant to today’s world that are layered with complex characters and cultural critique, I highly recommend this book. It’s smart, it’s emotional, and it doesn’t let you look away.