The Room in the Attic by T.M. Logan: A domestic thriller powered by male entitlement and bad decisions

The Room in the Attic by T.M. Logan arrives with a premise that should be irresistible to fans of domestic suspense: a struggling family stretches itself to buy a rambling Victorian villa, only to uncover a hidden room filled with unsettling clues to someone else’s life. Secrets buried in the walls, secrets inside a marriage, and danger creeping closer with every chapter. On paper, it works. In practice, the novel hinges on a protagonist whose greatest flaw isn’t malice—but an unshakable belief that he knows best, even as he proves again and again that he doesn’t.

Adam and Jess move into their new house with their three young children, already under financial strain. Almost immediately, Adam discovers a concealed door hidden behind a fitted wardrobe. Inside the secret room are several random items, including a wallet, an expensive watch, and an old mobile phone. Jess’s reaction is sensible and adult: get rid of them and move on. Adam, however, becomes fixated. He needs to know who they belonged to and why they were hidden, and that curiosity becomes the engine that drives the entire story.

From the outset, Adam is untrustworthy—not because he’s sinister, but because he’s dishonest in a way that feels casual and self-serving. He hides the fact that he’s lost his job from his wife, convincing himself it’s temporary and therefore not worth mentioning. If you’re willing to lie about something that significant, it’s hard to believe there’s much you wouldn’t justify keeping to yourself. And sure enough, secrecy becomes his default mode.

Adam likes to think of himself as a “nice guy,” but his actions tell a different story. Whenever a real decision needs to be made, especially one involving risk or safety, he slips into full Mr. Man of the House mode. He positions himself as the rational authority, even when he’s operating on little more than ego and vibes.

That dynamic becomes especially infuriating after Shaun shows up at the house. Shaun attempts to steal something, then escalates to an explicit threat—making it clear that next time, Adam won’t see him coming. Jess is understandably terrified and wants to call the police. Adam refuses. Not because he has a better plan, but because he doesn’t want to deal with the consequences or admit that things are out of his control.

He minimizes the danger, questions whether a “real” crime has even occurred, and gaslights Jess into believing she’s overreacting. At one point, he actually asks her what crime Shaun supposedly committed, despite the fact that Shaun tried to steal something and issued a direct threat. This is not a gray area. This is exactly when you call the police.

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The novel frames Adam’s behavior as protective, but it isn’t. It’s bumbling arrogance dressed up as leadership. He isn’t calm because he understands the situation—he’s calm because he’s convinced consequences won’t apply to him. He genuinely believes that his confidence alone will keep his family safe.

Adam’s curiosity about the hidden room and its contents is meant to be the story’s driving force, but his constant sneaking around only makes him more irritating. Jess gives him no real reason to feel like he can’t trust her with the truth, yet he repeatedly chooses secrecy “for her own good.” The author seems to think this reads as noble. What it actually reads as is infantilizing.

And this is where the white male privilege embedded in the novel becomes impossible to ignore. I avoid reading books by straight white men for exactly this reason, and once again I was tricked by genderless initials. It doesn’t take long for the pattern to assert itself: the mediocre white man who is absolutely certain he knows best, who barrels forward making one bad decision after another while the narrative quietly excuses it because his intentions are pure.

Jess, meanwhile, is treated like someone who needs to be managed rather than respected. She is a grown woman with a brain and human rights of her own. She has the right to know what her husband is doing. She has the right to insist on police involvement. She has the right to not be gaslighted into silence in the name of “protection.” Adam’s secrecy doesn’t shield her or their children—it actively makes them more vulnerable. Yet, the only arena where he seems remotely willing to defer to her is in keeping the house clean and orderly.

By the final stretch of the novel, as Adam stacks wrong assumption on top of stupid decision, my patience was gone. I stopped caring whether he solved the mystery and started hoping the murderer would get him—and that he had enough life insurance to pay off the house so his family could finally move on with their lives in peace.

The ending doesn’t redeem any of this. The antagonist delivers a full-blown villain monologue, neatly explaining the who, what, when, why, and how in a way that feels lifted straight from a network television crime drama. Instead of heightening the tension, it drains the story of realism and impact.

The Room in the Attic is marketed as a darkly gripping, addictive read, and I can see how the setup might appeal to fans of domestic suspense. For me, though, it was less a thriller than a reminder of why I’ve stepped away from this particular brand of male-centered domestic drama—where incompetence is mistaken for authority and secrecy is framed as strength.

Have you read it—or are you planning to? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments, especially if you had a very different reaction to Adam than I did.

The Room in the Attic by T.M. Logan releases January 20, 2026. An advance reader copy of this book (ARC) was provided to me by the publisher via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

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