If you’re looking for an epistolary that epitomizes the “multiple perspectives” angle, Trust is the book for you. The novel covers the same story from four perspectives, starting with a fictionalized account and working up to a diary. Each new retelling reveals a different angle to the story, forcing the reader to reflect on whose stories get heard – and whose are glossed over.

Where a typical epistolary comprises a collection of “found footage” elements in roughly chronological order, Diaz chooses to tell the story, start to finish, four times. By retelling the same story, he emphasizes the differences in perspective without confusing or losing the reader. As readers, we get to immerse ourselves in a new voice, a new perspective. Each section left me reflecting on how important it is to dig beyond the surface with every story I hear.

Trust was a pretty fast read but a deep one. Unlike the podcast epistolaries, this is a novel meant to be absorbed and mulled over. It’s a pensive book meant for a secluded cabin retreat or a rainy-day reading session. I fully expect to pick it up again, anytime I need to remind myself to rethink a story from another angle.

Cover Story came out during the height of our collective obsession with Anna Delvey / Sorokin. In case you hadn’t had enough via Inventing Anna, here was a suspiciously similar tale. The novel follows a journalism intern conned by a glamorous fake heiress named (improbably) Cat Wolff. This time, though, you got the added investigative thrill of unwinding the story via documents produced during the action. Wannabe sleuths, rejoice!

Cover Story is a collection of diary entries, articles, emails, and investigative documents – the “found footage” model of the epistolary. Because the story is so well-known, the fun comes from piecing together the connective tissue between the documents. There’s a particular investigative adrenaline produced as you notice and hypothesize about discrepancies, only to be proved right (or so, so wrong) mere chapters later. This is pure “novel as escape room” – writing meant to allow you to exercise your puzzle-solving muscles.

It wouldn’t make sense for the story to veer too closely to Sorokin’s, and Rigetti gets creative with the ending. If you’re looking for the ending to make perfect sense, this might not be the right match. But if, like me, you’re willing to suspend your disbelief for the sake of a good con (and the chance to investigate it yourself), give Cover Story a shot.

I was immeasurably excited to find The Appeal by Janice Hallett last year. Epistolary novels seemed to be waning, and it was thrilling to find a new voice who appreciated them. The book exceeded all my expectations – so you can imagine my excitement when I learned that Hallett was releasing another, this time featuring voice-notes from an ex-convict. (In fact, I was so excited that I ordered it to the US from England – thus why I’ve read it well ahead of its American release date.)

Hallett is a clever writer and makes full use of the medium. The Twyford Code is full of little mis-transcriptions (“mustard” for “must have”, etc.) that make it feel more real. Steve has a distinct voice, and his story – involving Nazis, a famous children’s author, and a sympathetic librarian – is full of complications. He’s absolutely an unreliable narrator, and the ending is a bit of a twist. This is, to some extent, par for the course when it comes to epistolaries featuring criminals – there’s a sense that they must misrepresent themselves, even in the written (or recorded) word. The twist is probably the most controversial part of the book, with readers split on whether or not they bought it.

But The Twyford Code is more than just a puzzle. Underlying all of the twists and turns is an emotive story of redemption that’s worth the read. As with Cover Story, your enjoyment will depend a lot on both your expectations and your reaction to feeling bamboozled. For me, The Twyford Code perfectly scratched my investigative, meta-fictional itch, and I’m anxiously awaiting Hallett’s next.

Where’d You Go, Bernadette is such a genre favorite that it almost feels like cheating to put it on this list. (When it was published, it spent a year on The New York Times bestseller lists.) The story follows a former architect, Bernadette Peters, as she navigates life as a Microsoft wife in Seattle. Bernadette is a former MacArthur Genius turned neighborhood weirdo – she lives in an isolated house on a hill and relies heavily on a scammy “virtual assistant”. When she disappears mid-year, it’s up to her daughter Bee to piece together the story and find her.

I first read Where’d You Go, Bernadette when I was a little older than Bee, and I remember adoring Bernadette. Her snark and wit made her a true hero to a socially awkward teenager. But a few years have passed – and this time I found myself taking much more from the story. For one thing, in the intervening years I’ve done quite a bit of work in Seattle, and Semple’s satire of Microsoft and its relationship to the city just hits different. I can imagine the places and settings more clearly. I also better understand the nuances of working adulthood – and appreciate the layers of humor.

More importantly, this time around I felt very differently about Bernadette. Reading her story made me reflective – about women’s role in society, about how technology has taken over, about how mental health can be so critical and so invisible. I still laughed a bunch – but this time, there were moments that made me want to cry for Bernadette, too.

Where’d You Go, Bernadette is probably my favorite modern epistolary novel. Ten years after its publication, I can confidently say that it’s stood the test of time. Admittedly, I’m right in the target audience – I can relate to all the tech jokes, I have an introvert’s horror of other people – but I’d call it a modern classic. I’m so glad I came back to it this year – and I’m hoping to do it again soon.