I just marked the shelves as "mystery" and "thriller" for Lisa Unger's Fragile with a bit of sarcastic, Clueless-inspired, airquotes. The story begins with a great deal of promise: three generations of residents are dealing with two missing persons cases: one is a current case of a girl who may be either a runaway or an abduction, and the other is an allegedly solved murder case dating back twenty years or so that may not have been solved after all.When the book opens, switching between third-person omniscient points of view, you can't stop turning pages as you meet each new resident of the small town where both missing girls lived and look for clues to how each is tied to the cases. As the story unfolds, however, you have to stretch how far you can push your ability to ignore the impossibilities from the tiny editing snafus (no, a small town doesn't have police precincts, thank you for teaching me that, crime writer friend) to the number of interwoven connections in a town that would have to be the size of a postage stamp.When a psychic comes into play in the end pushing the deus ex machina to a deus ex psychic, you know that there were just too many holes to plug. I finished the last thirty pages or so in the morning, sure that the finale would be the thriller I'd been waiting for since the prologue, but no, it bumped along to a petering-out halt, much like a car running out of gas. The writing itself is lovely, and many of the many characters are recognizable in their very human faults and foibles, but when an author is afraid to let any of her main characters not have a happy ending, much less die, it can hardly be called a thriller, or even a whodunit. It's more like a "yeah, that's who did it, and meh, it's not such a big anyway."