Canadian author Ashley Tate’s debut Twenty-seven Minutes begins with a horrific car accident in which teenager Phoebe Dean, who is “too young and too beautiful and too good to die”, dies. Her older brother Grant, was driving. Her friend, Becca, was in the back seat. They survived.

Ten years later, as Grant’s mother plans a memorial for the perfect daughter she lost, townsfolk are petitioning to have the bridge where the accident happened demolished. Not so much because of what happened to Phoebe but because of Rose Wilson, an elderly woman who has also had on accident on the bridge.

The memorial is stirring up a lot of drama in the town. Grant, who has always been troubled despite the fact that he was a big football star back in the day, is clearly imploding. He drinks, sleeps around and is clearly still grieving over the loss of his sister, but he comes across as an asshole more than as someone who can’t seem to shake off what happened that night.

There is also some sort of weird relationship between Grant and Becca. They have made some sort of agreement about what happened on the bridge the night Phoebe was killed and have also agreed not to talk about the status of their relationship.

June is also in mourning. On the night Phoebe died, her older brother, Wyatt, left home and never returned. Now June’s mother has died, leaving her all alone in the world until, miracle of miracles, Wyatt returns. He won’t tell her where he has been for the last decade, he just hints that all will be revealed.

The novel tracks multiple perspectives, each of them having a vested interest in what actually transpired on the bridge that night. This reveal is what we wait almost 300 pages for. 300 long pages of people shrieking at each other or saying the same thing over and over. It was not a fun time.

The title refers to the twenty-seven minutes between when the accident happens and when Grant actually calls for help. The reveal is both unbelievable and kind of ridiculous. The teenage versions of these characters sound exactly like their twenty-something selves and none of them are particularly likeable or sympathetic. I understand how people can get mired in grief, but this book was interminable and the ultimate payoff not worth the effort.

Not for me.