On a ferry to Whidbey Island, Birdie Chang confides in a stranger about the sexual abuse she suffered as a child and the ongoing harassment she receives from her abuser, Calvin, who has been released from prison. When the stranger offers to murder the man for her, no strings attached, she agrees and gives him the name. His death reverberates through the lives of three women: Birdie; Mary-Beth, Calvin’s mother; and Linzie, a former reality-television star whose bestselling memoir recounts her own experience of sexual assault – along with Birdie’s, without her knowledge or consent – by the same man.

These women grapple with violence, loss, and exposure in very different ways. Birdie exists in a suspended state, trapped in the past, replaying memories of life before fear and paranoia shaped her every thought. Linzie, by contrast, seeks constant validation – from her father, her agent, and the public – using visibility as a means of survival, even when it comes at the expense of others. Mary-Beth retreats into denial, refusing to accept the harm her son has inflicted.

What makes Whidbey such an uncomfortable read is how trauma is never presented in clear or morally simple terms. Linzie is difficult to sympathise with as her self-absorption and exploitation of Birdie’s story complicate expectations of how a ‘good’ victim should behave. Yet her life is also one of fragility and instability in her struggle to assemble a ‘normal’ life after trauma. Mary-Beth’s perspective is perhaps the most confronting, as her complicity in and denial of her child’s actions remain stagnant, even as more stories of assault are uncovered.

While the beginning of the novel is reminiscent of a Patricia Highsmith whodunnit, Whidbey is ultimately a nuanced character study that explores trauma and survival, and challenges readers to consider how society judges, ranks, and responds to different victims of violence.