Join us for a con­ver­sa­tion with Tova Mirvis and Dan Slater on March 31st at 7p.m. ET at The Jew­ish Muse­um! This Unpack­ing the Book event will delve into por­tray­als of crime and crim­i­nals in Amer­i­ca. Through their works of fic­tion and non­fic­tion, we can trace how chang­ing con­ver­sa­tions about crime are a reflec­tion of the broad­er world we live in today. Mod­er­at­ed by writer and pod­cast host, Stephanie Butnick.

Inspired by a true scan­dal, Tova Mirvis’ lat­est nov­el reveals how a con­tentious divorce spi­rals into a night­mar­ish mur­der case. The book alter­nates between the after­math — a murky, anx­ious present where the victim’s wife, Haley, and daugh­ter, Maya, are in hid­ing — and the past, rewind­ing to show how a nice upper-mid­dle-class Flori­da fam­i­ly became a tabloid headline.

A deft per­spec­tive shift ear­ly on asserts autho­r­i­al con­trol, pulling us in with high stakes and a brisk pace. Yet that thriller-like grip loosens as the nov­el piv­ots to the unrav­el­ing of a fam­i­ly and the emo­tion­al forces that dri­ve good peo­ple toward vio­lence. The trend of mis­la­bel­ing books as part-thriller or mys­tery for com­mer­cial appeal (and the hope of a stream­ing deal) is increas­ing­ly com­mon, but Mirvis’ lat­est is, at its core, a steady-pulse nov­el. It doesn’t make you sweat over who­dunit or strain to decode its themes — name­ly, the dan­gers of all-con­sum­ing fam­i­ly love. Even its title, We Would Nev­er, play­ful­ly gives itself away (We—in fact—would).

The fam­i­ly at the novel’s cen­ter is Jew­ish, though loose­ly prac­tic­ing. The most overt­ly ​“Jew­ish” aspect of the nov­el may be its over­bear­ing matri­arch, Sher­ry, who is refresh­ing­ly por­trayed as more than a stereo­type or a ven­er­a­tion-tinged punch­line akin to the job inter­view response: ​“I just work too hard!” — in this case, ​“I just love too much!”

Instead, We Would Nev­er forces us to look so close­ly at this kind of smoth­er-love that we cringe. We wince at the need­i­ness, self­ish­ness, and self-delu­sion fuel­ing it — or, kind­lier, at the wounds, as the nov­el reminds us. Mirvis stirs empa­thy for her least redeemable char­ac­ters by allud­ing to unfil­l­able voids left by upbring­ings, offer­ing some of her most effec­tive prose (when Sher­ry becomes an emp­ty nester, the house feels ​“des­ic­cat­ed”).

As divorce nego­ti­a­tions between Team Haley and Team Jon­ah give way to manip­u­la­tion and bribery, an ami­ca­ble res­o­lu­tion feels incon­ceiv­able. Amid the schem­ing that careens us toward cat­a­stro­phe, the small­est, qui­etest pres­ence — young Maya — emerges as the novel’s most trag­ic casu­al­ty. Unfor­tu­nate­ly, Maya’s sparse pres­ence in the book also makes her feel unre­al as a char­ac­ter — under­scor­ing how pre­oc­cu­pa­tion itself can be a form of neglect.

If there’s a moment when we respect Sherry’s moth­er-cub stance, it’s fleet­ing. Her procla­ma­tions of bound­less devo­tion even­tu­al­ly sound like what they are: unhinged. By the time any­one rais­es an eye­brow, it’s too late. The sky is dark­en­ing, a fam­i­ly is com­ing apart. All we can do is sit and watch a hun­gry love spin out of con­trol and — like a tor­na­do — destroy every­thing in its path.