Stacey D’Erasmo’s The Complicities is a quiet yet piercing exploration of moral ambiguity, guilt, and the lingering aftershocks of deceit. The novel centers on Suzanne, the ex-wife of a man imprisoned for financial fraud, as she tries to rebuild her life after years of denial and silent complicity. Through Suzanne’s introspection and her attempt to construct a new existence by the sea, D’Erasmo examines how people live with the moral residue of their choices—and how complicity can take many subtle, self-deceptive forms. The story becomes not one of redemption, but of reckoning: an inquiry into what remains when the illusion of innocence collapses.
At its core, The Complicities investigates the moral gray zones of human behavior. Suzanne was not the architect of her husband’s crimes, but her comfort depended on them. D’Erasmo shows how guilt can exist without overt wrongdoing—how turning a blind eye, choosing not to ask, or quietly enjoying the benefits of corruption are all forms of participation. Suzanne’s self-examination unfolds slowly, revealing not grand confessions but small recognitions of how she accepted a life built on dishonesty. The novel’s title captures this multiplicity of guilt: complicity is rarely singular; it’s shared, layered, and quietly corrosive.
Another key theme is reinvention and denial. After her husband’s conviction, Suzanne relocates to a coastal town, attempting to start anew, yet her past clings to her like the tide. Her desire for renewal—buying property, forming new relationships, volunteering—feels like an attempt to overwrite the record rather than confront it. D’Erasmo’s portrayal of Suzanne is deeply psychological; she is neither villain nor victim, but an ordinary person trying to negotiate her sense of self after moral failure. The narrative exposes how reinvention, in such cases, becomes another form of denial—a way to reshape one’s story rather than truly atone.
The novel also engages with the seductive nature of comfort and privilege. Suzanne’s earlier life of luxury and ease, funded by deceit, is portrayed not as evil but as dangerously numbing. D’Erasmo illustrates how comfort dulls moral awareness—how complicity often begins with convenience. The moral critique is not shouted but whispered; through small domestic moments, Suzanne’s memories reveal how easy it is to mistake silence for virtue and ignorance for innocence.
Stylistically, D’Erasmo’s prose is precise, restrained, and lyrical, mirroring the cool distance Suzanne maintains from her emotions. The coastal setting—its mutable tides, weathered houses, and shifting light—serves as a natural metaphor for her inner state. The sea represents both cleansing and recurrence: no matter how often Suzanne tries to wash her past away, it keeps resurfacing. D’Erasmo’s minimalist style draws power from suggestion; much is left unsaid, which gives the narrative its moral tension. The pacing is deliberate, allowing the reader to feel the slow, almost tidal rhythm of guilt and reflection.
What distinguishes The Complicities is its refusal to offer closure. There is no cathartic confession or redemption, only a deepening awareness of moral entanglement. D’Erasmo challenges the reader to consider how responsibility extends beyond the obvious perpetrators of harm—to those who benefit, who stay silent, who look away. By the end, Suzanne’s quiet life by the ocean feels less like an escape and more like a form of exile, haunted by the awareness that innocence, once forfeited, cannot be reclaimed.
Ultimately, The Complicities is a masterful meditation on accountability, denial, and the persistence of moral memory. D’Erasmo transforms the aftermath of a crime into an intimate psychological landscape where guilt and self-deception coexist. The novel asks unsettling questions about how one can live ethically after complicity—and whether self-forgiveness is ever truly possible. Through Suzanne’s haunting introspection, D’Erasmo reveals that the hardest truth to face is not what we’ve done, but what we’ve allowed ourselves to ignore.
