Sascha Naimann has a lot on her plate. The big thing is her mother’s death at the hands of her stepfather, Vadim, a murder witnessed not only by Sascha herself but also by her little brother, Anton, and her little sister, Alissa. Anton, now a broken boy, quiet and weak and delicate, is also prone to alarming behavior: once Sascha discovered him dissecting the bloody carcass of a guinea pig.
But—and this is a question that The Thieves of Manhattan repeatedly, tantalizingly brandishes—what is the truth, at least when it comes to writing? The answers implied by the narrative’s twists and turns are mostly disingenuous. Lies can be truths of sorts, Ian would have us belief; patent falsehoods can collapse into profundity, conceal something immensely significant.