I spent my junior year abroad in Italy, directly enrolled at the University of Bologna. It’s the place where, in many ways, I became an adult: I was living outside of the U.S. for the first time; I was fully responsible for my housing and finances; I turned twenty-one.
In Bologna, especially at the beginning, I felt like an outsider acting with only partial knowledge of any given situation. It was the same when it came to my coursework. I was studying archeology and learning that most of what survives from antiquity is either fragmented, displaced, or lacking full context. And so throughout the course of that year, I came to associate Italy with a sense of intensity and pressure that, looking back, was a form of suspense.
That particular feeling of suspense is central to my debut novel, Artifacts (May 2026), which follows Lena Connolly, a New York trusts and estates attorney who gets drawn into a repatriation case that forces her to revisit a summer spent on a dig in the Italian Alps. As the investigation progresses, Lena’s memories of her time in Italy shift our understanding of her role in the dig and the disappearance of her professor, Cyrille.
In writing it, I found myself turning to novels set in Italy that operate in the same way. The following novels can all be categorized as literary suspense, in that they are distinguished less by pure plot or genre and more by the strategic way they handle information. What is known at the outset is rarely complete, and meaning shifts as new information is revealed. This narrative structure is also inherent to archeology, making Italy, with its layered past, an ideal backdrop for literary suspense.
Here are five of my favorites.
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Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose
Umberto Eco is one of my literary heroes, and The Name of the Rose is among my favorite books of all time. It’s set in a fourteenth-century abbey in the Italian Alps (not too far from the fictional dig in Artifacts) where a friar arrives to investigate a series of deaths by analyzing texts that have been tampered with. Eco was a professor of semiotics (in Bologna!) and his academic background is completely integrated into the novel: the reader comes away understanding that meaning isn’t fixed, symbols can be misleading, and “facts” are always subject to interpretation.
The story of the abbey comes to us through a contemporary narrator who has stumbled upon a written fourteenth-century account of the events there, so even the narrative itself is a layered, subjective experience. The big revelation at the novel’s conclusion is very nerdy and satisfying.
Leonardo Sciascia, The Day of the Owl
This was the first novel to openly characterize the Sicilian mafia as an organized political-economic system, and for that reason it’s foundational to Italian literature. The story follows a northern investigator trying to solve the murder of a contractor in rural Sicily. The facts of the crime are given to the reader up front, and we even meet witnesses who know exactly what happened—but the case stalls because no one will confirm anything.
By the end, the investigator understands the crime, but it remains to be seen whether he will be able to prosecute or influence the outcome in any material way. The suspense in this case isn’t about figuring out the truth; it’s about whether or not the truth will actually lead to justice.
Elena Ferrante, Troubling Love
I’m in the minority of Ferrante fans, I think, in that I prefer her early work to the Neapolitan quartet. Troubling Love, her debut novel, follows protagonist Delia back to Naples to investigate her mother’s drowning. Immediately we want to know what happened to Delia’s mother, of course, but this is not a traditional whodunnit, because the more compelling layer of suspense comes from Delia’s realization that her own memories are unreliable, and that she has spent her life believing a specific version of her childhood that turns out to be a self-protective lie.
In Artifacts, Lena deals with a similar internal block. Solving the external mystery of the dig forces her to also reckon with her own family history and specifically her relationship to her mother.
Muriel Spark, The Public Image
I’m a huge fan of Spark’s antiheroines, and The Public Image’s Annabel, an actress who has spent her career curating a perfectly curated public persona, is one of my favorites. The novel follows her as that image begins to come under pressure from within her marriage: her husband Frederick resents both her success and the version of herself she presents to the world.
At the midpoint, Frederick attempts to destroy that image by staging his suicide to make it look like Annabel killed him. The suspense is in how his death will be interpreted, and how much control Annabel will be able to exert over that interpretation. Like the other novels on this list, it’s a work of literary suspense in which the tension comes as much from instability of information as the actual plot.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Marble Faun
My friend, the biographer Megan Marshall, recommended The Marble Faun to me after reading an early copy of Artifacts—and I’m so glad she did! Set in Rome in the 1850s, the novel follows a group of expats whose lives change after they witness Donatello, a young Italian count, commit a murder. Hawthorne likens Donatello to a real sculpture in the Capitoline Museums (a marble copy of the Faun of Praxiteles), emphasizing his slightly pointed ears and his innocence.
After the murder, the focus is not on solving the crime but on the increasingly suspenseful moral dilemma of what the trauma-bonded expats should do with the information. Hawthorne also plays with the blurry line between art and humanity, and the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of both.
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