I ’ve been gnashing at the bits for more unhinged female serial killer books, so as soon as I saw the blurb for Maeve Fly by C.J. Leede, I wanted to love it so badly. The opening hook was fantastic and Maeve, our narrator, adamantly asserts that this is her story. Here is the truth, the one that so few of us know: You do not need a moral and noble story to do what you want. You do not first need to be a victim to become a monster. Your loved ones need not be taken from you so that you might drink and brutalize and chase the sublime. Life is fleeting and meaningless and crying to be seized from behind and fucked into obscurity. This is my story, and you cannot control it. No more than you can the ever-lower dangle of your sex or the warming of this fat, lazy prison rock floating in the semen-splotched dark. And yet, the rest of the story does not hold up to its initial promise and proceeds to borrow heavily from other fictional serial killers to the point that Mae...