I have become more and more distrustful of publishers' abilities to pick books we want to read, and this book is a prime example. Is it just me, or have even usually solid writers like Michael Crichton run out of words? This author had, I guess, the opposite problem, which was not knowing when to quit. I finally did after about 120 pages as the main character pulled out her yawn-invoking, story-telling father once again. To the complainers I have to say this: What took you so long in figuring out this book was a massive waste of your time?