In a world where truth is currency and memory can be weaponized, one woman races against time to uncover a buried conspiracy that could shatter everything. The Light Runner is a genre-bending thriller that blends psychological suspense with speculative intrigue. Ally Walker crafts a haunting, fast-paced narrative filled with unforgettable characters, cinematic tension, and a pulse-pounding mystery that will keep readers hooked until the final page.
In a world where truth is currency and memory can be weaponized, one woman races against time to uncover a buried conspiracy that could shatter everything. The Light Runner is a genre-bending thriller that blends psychological suspense with speculative intrigue. Ally Walker crafts a haunting, fast-paced narrative filled with unforgettable characters, cinematic tension, and a pulse-pounding mystery that will keep readers hooked until the final page.
It was always the same. She was in her aunt and uncle’s house, the house she grew up in, looking for the little girl.
Outside the wind howled as a mounting sense of dread propelled her down the hall. There was her room, with the pink pony on her bed; there was the TV in the den, where her uncle’s big chair held court; there was the old green sofa in the living room, tired and worn, as if the weight of the world was on its weary springs.
But just then there was a noise, and she cocked her head to listen.
There she was. The little girl’s cries were coming from her aunt and uncle’s room at the end of the hall. She moved quickly and cautiously, and as she entered the room, a wave of longing hit her. There was the old afghan her aunt crocheted; the pictures of her as a child on the bedside table and her aunt’s slippers at the foot of the bed, as if to guard it.
The windows in front of her rattled loudly, and the wind howled as if in pain. She saw the trees bend to its will and behind them, two stars shining brightly. They seemed too close to be real. So close you could almost touch them, and they looked more like Easter eggs, nestled into the night sky. But then she heard a whimper, and she turned her attention to the closet, where it came from. She saw the light seeping out from under its door, and as she moved toward it, it seemed to grow brighter, beckoning her. She reached out to open it and was stopped by what she saw: dark red specks of blood spattered all over her hand. A chill ran through her, and she noticed her other hand and her arms were covered in kind. She stared down at her appendages in shock, almost as if they’d betrayed her. And she couldn’t help but wonder, whose blood was it?
Her reverie was cut short when suddenly the windows flew open, and the wind filled the room with dust. Until it was everywhere. Until there was nothing to do but let it swirl all around her. Until there was nothing to see but the red, red dust ...
Ella’s eyes flew open as she gasped for air. Sunlight assaulted her consciousness, and she was forced to pull her pillow over her head to ward it off. Her heart raced, and she bit her lip as she tried to calm it. She felt cold beads of sweat run down her neck. It was just a dream, she told herself. Just the stupid, Goddam dream . . .
She took a few deep breaths when suddenly there was the splutter and pop of a lawn mower outside the window. It was so loud, she pulled the pillow even tighter over her ears and from underneath it lamented, Why? Why must the gardener start so damn early? Every time she stayed at Clyde’s on Sunday night, she was confronted with yard work bright and early Monday morning. She really could have used another hour of sleep, but between the dream and the lawn mower, it wasn’t meant to be. So she tossed the pillow, rolled over, and saw that Clyde was already out of bed.
The clock read 7:30 a.m. Her first session was in an hour and a half. She stretched her arms above her, yawning, and felt the dull ache behind her eyes that greeted her most mornings when she’d forgotten to take her medication. Why hadn’t she put the damn pills in her bag? She could see the bottle in her medicine cabinet, laughing at her. You forgot us again! it squealed. Fuck. Her medicine was the only thing that staved off the dream, or the nightmare, as she had come to know it. The term dream was usually reserved for something pleasant, wasn’t it? And hers was anything but.
She heard the shower running and realized that she had a few minutes to kill, so she grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. A chirpy newscaster done up to the nines popped up on the screen. Prepared to be greeted by the political catastrophe story of the day, Ella was surprised to see that it was something about a war hero’s wife being killed in a parking lot.
But the next image on the screen surprised her even more, because it was a picture of Bainbridge Psychiatric Hospital. The very hospital where she worked. Ella leaned forward and listened to the details of what seemed to have transpired the previous evening.
“Captain Oliver Haskell was taken to Bainbridge Psychiatric Hospital last night upon hearing of his wife’s murder in the parking lot at Wellglad Pharmaceuticals. Captain Haskell is a decorated Iraq war veteran who planned a daring escape from the Taliban after being captured,” the reporter continued, but Ella was lost in thought.
Was that why Clyde had come in past midnight last night? Had he been tending to the war hero?
Clyde Westbrook was the chief psychiatrist at Bainbridge Psychiatric Hospital and happened to be Ella’s boyfriend, and her boss too. She’d heard the rumors about his affairs with other residents when she’d started at Bainbridge and so had kept her distance from him. But he was so inquisitive and kind and didn’t seem anything like the lothario she’d heard about, and soon she was captivated by him.
She kicked off the covers and headed into the bathroom, where he stood before the mirror, furiously fixing his tie. His face looked haggard from lack of sleep, which only accentuated the age difference between them; Clyde was twenty years her senior. Suddenly, the newscaster in the next room got his attention, and he shot Ella a nasty look, as if to say she knew better than to turn on the TV, and he headed to the bedroom to turn it off.
It was one of those mornings, she thought. Best to be quiet and give him his space. So she went to the sink, put some toothpaste on her toothbrush, and began brushing her teeth. Clyde reentered a moment later and decisively cleared his throat.
“I have some news.”
Ella spat into the sink. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m giving you a fairly big case.”
Ella looked at him, still brushing.
“Did you hear the news last night? The war hero whose wife was murdered?” he asked.
Yes, she’d just heard, as a matter of fact. Captain Oliver Haskell had lost his wife to murder in the parking lot of Wellglad Pharmaceuticals, where she worked.
“Well, he was brought into Bainbridge late last night for observation and stayed on a volunteer basis—a wellness watch. The admitting doctor saw no signs he was suicidal, but the friend who brought him in was worried about that and thought it best to be on the safe side. Probably just shock and anxiety. Anyway . . . I’ve decided you should handle the case. You’ll have to start immediately.”
Ella was stunned. She’d only recently ended her residency and was not as experienced as the other doctors on staff who would normally take on something like this. The scrutiny would be intense.
“That’s pretty high profile, Clyde,” Ella said, spitting out some toothpaste.
He looked at her, disappointed. “Well, if you’re not ready . . .”
That stung, and it wasn’t what she’d meant at all, so she scrambled. “It’s not that I’m not ready, it’s just . . . Aren’t you worried about what people will say? That you gave it to me because of us?”
He looked at her pointedly. “I really don’t waste my time with others’ opinions, and I thought we agreed to keep us under wraps for the time being?”
“Well, I have, but it’s been over four months. . . . I just thought . . .” she stumbled.
Clyde’s brow furrowed. “I’m the chief psychiatrist at one of the more pre-eminent psychiatric hospitals on the East Coast and you are fresh out of your residency. Not a good idea to share with your friends. Who’ve you told?”
“No one,” she said, somewhat put off by his insinuation.
He looked into her eyes and, seeming satisfied, said “Good.” Then he kissed the top of her head and quickly walked out, saying, “You want the case or not?”
Ella looked at herself in the mirror and flushed with excitement. “Of course I want the case. I’m not an idiot!” she said, and then rinsed her mouth.
“Good. And don’t worry. If there are any problems, just come to me.”
He walked back in, ready for work. “I’ve gotta go.”
Ella couldn’t believe Clyde was giving her this chance and silently vowed to show him that his trust was well-placed.
She went to put her arms around his neck and kiss him, but he spoiled the moment and intercepted her hands, saying, “My jacket.” As in don’t get it wet; then he kissed her quickly. Ella felt a wave of disappointment at his unsexy behavior but quickly shrugged it off.
“I have to run. Can you lock up?” he asked, on the move.
Ella nodded and watched him go. She heard the door shut as she started the shower and went into the closet, where she’d fortunately stashed a change of clothes. She would have to hurry to Bainbridge and prep for her new case before her regular rounds. Stopping by her apartment was out of the question.
She pulled the handle on the dresser drawer, but it stuck. After some jiggling, it opened, and she grabbed her bra and panties. When she went to close it, it stuck again, which resulted in a framed picture on the dresser falling to the floor. She bent to retrieve it and stopped to study the photo.
There was Clyde amid several men on a boat, holding up a sacrificial fish. Smiling faces in hats and dark glasses to ward off the sun as they celebrated the murder of an unsuspecting tuna. As she scanned the faces, she recognized most of them as colleagues at Bainbridge. But there was one man standing next to Clyde who she didn’t recognize. He was the only one not wearing sunglasses and not smiling. His gaze was quite intense. In fact, it was a bit like that of a vulture.
Maybe fishing just wasn’t his thing, she thought as she put the picture back and hurried into the bathroom.
The Light Runner by Ally Walker is a tonal mixture between Netflix’s The OA and The Gone World by Tom Sweterlitsch. This first book in The Realities Series is a psychological crime thriller with philosophical musings interweaved throughout the plot.
The first two-thirds of the novel only hint at what the synopsis promises: “a world where truth is currency and memory can be weaponized.” Even still, the pacing and the mystery will keep the reader gripped from start to finish, awaiting the answers the author doles out through her complex and full character ensemble.
The first fifty pages or so take some patience, as every other chapter introduces a new character’s perspective. At first, this feels more like playing telephone than easing into world-building.
Once past that introductory period, though, the story settles on the two main characters: Dr. Ella Kramer, post-resident psychiatrist at Bainbridge Psychiatric Hospital, and Detective Paul Moran, a crotchety but sweet trope who relies on his gut because he’s “the best detective in the precinct.” They work independently for most of the book to solve related mysteries: Who killed Hannah Haskell, and what is distressing the patients at Bainbridge?
To make up for the cop-about-to-retire cliché, Walker breaks other character clichés a little forcefully. Detective Moran’s partner Detective Scarpetti, for example, is a ballroom dancer in his spare time and actually practices his moves in front of his partner, which borders on cartoonish. Walker conversely rewards the reader with dialogue that drips with chemistry, life, and humor between other characters, as in Dr. Kramer’s conversations with her colleague Dr. Gary Lester.
The Light Runner’s debut author is a TV and film actress, and her skills translate to her storytelling abilities. In fact, the rich characters and dialogue are well suited for a television series.
The dialogue often repeats the scenes’ details. In one of the first chapters, Kramer sees a news story about how Hannah Haskell was killed in the parking lot of her work at Wellglad Pharmaceuticals. Two to three paragraphs later, that event is recapped between two characters, almost verbatim. This is just one of many instances.
Perhaps Walker’s impressive background taught her to rely on the episodic and formulaic structure of a TV crime drama, which often outlines the case at hand to keep viewers up to speed after commercial breaks. In a book, however, a simple “Detective Moran gave Detective Scarpetti a rundown” would have sufficed.
That said, there are so many moving parts that some readers may find it helpful to have the events restated so frequently. For those who haven’t picked up a book in a while, this might be a great place to reignite your love affair with reading.
Overall, this 3.5/5-star read will appeal to lovers of crime dramas, psychological thrillers, and sci-fi.