The Adoration of Jenna Fox, Pearson. Yes. I’m not sure I would recommend this book to anyone: it bears the earmarks of sf written by a non-sf writer in that some obvious questions are implied but not explicitly raised (and certainly not addressed); I found the scientific rationale to be very hand-wavy, yet at more length than hand-waving can really support (repeating the same hand-waving several times doesn’t make it any more credible); and it more reminded me of books I would recommend than it was one.
Pearson’s writing was reasonably solid (the appearance of the alternative spelling “imposter” for “impostor” distracted, but it is a time-honored variant); in particular, characterization of individuals (if not society) was believable, with one glaring exception (my librarian tells me that the omission was most likely in order to meet grade-level criteria). Nevertheless, I can recommend several other explorations of the same themes over this one, most of them non-fiction.

The Likeness, French. Yes. My librarian brought this home on spec, in the same delivery as What the Dead Know, and I’m quite grateful. The two mysteries share a plot element, but French’s work is much more solid than Lippman’s. Nothing struck me as filler, and even the segments that weren’t driving the plot were well-constructed and engaging. I am somewhat troubled by something that I can’t quite identify. It may be that none of the characters is all that sympathetic, but I could also argue that’s because they’re presented with human complexity, so I surely shouldn’t complain about that.

What the Dead Know, Lippman. No. There is plenty of very good writing in this book. Unfortunately, there is also a disqualifying amount of not-very-good writing. This is the second time Publishers Weekly has let me down, describing this in their Staff Favorites issue as an “outstanding stand-alone thriller.” I did not find it particularly suspenseful (by and large), much less thrilling, perhaps due to several sections that felt like so much filler. Toward the middle and end, I found myself reading it at every opportunity; not—as is the case with a book I’m loving—because I was burning to know how it would turn out, but just so I could get it over with and move on.