I lost interest in Alexis Schaitkin’s debut novel quite early on. Something about it felt tiresomely familiar. Yet another story about a privileged, white family touched by tragedy when their teenage daughter (beautiful, of course, and brilliant, of course) turns up dead on vacation on an exclusive Caribbean island. Saint X is mostly narrated by Claire, the dead girl’s sister, who, back in NYC, is obsessed with finding out what happened. Claire (who works in publishing, of course), trails one of the original suspects, now working as a NYC cab driver, and becomes obsessed about knowing what happened and what part he played in the events.

Don’t be misled by the jacket blurb that wants readers to believe that Saint X is some piece of sophisticated social commentary. It isn’t. It’s a basic and not very interesting mystery story.