Sharp Objects is a wild ride. It’s a psychological thriller about journalist Camille Preaker. She heads back to her hometown to dig into murders of two young girls. As she investigates, Camille stumbles on twisted family secrets and dark town tales, all while wrestling with her own issues. With a stellar cast and eerie music, Sharp Objects is totally a must-see for anyone who loves gripping drama.

Meet the characters from Sharp Objects

Bill Vickery

Bill is the archetypal small-town lawman but like, not the infallible kind — more the guy who knows everyone’s business because he’s been around forever and also kind of watches too much TV (seriously, he probably owns a badge-shaped mug). He tries to be steady and reassuring, which sometimes reads as stiff or awkward, but he genuinely cares in a sort of practical, avoidant way. He’s the sort of person who’ll pat your shoulder and then go home and frown at his own reflection; also, I swear he hums old country songs when he’s nervous. Not flashy, but essential — plus he has a ridiculous collection of ties that somehow match none of his shirts.

Richard Willis

Richard is the junior cop with more enthusiasm than sense, the one who nods like he understands but might be doodling in his notebook (or he might be mentally rehearsing what he’s going to say at lunch — hard to tell). He wants to do the right thing, and that earnestness is simultaneously adorable and kind of heartbreaking because he’s out of his depth sometimes. He’s the guy who quotes the law unironically and also eats donuts like it’s an art form, which is a weirdly endearing combo. Occasionally he gets a surprising flash of insight — or maybe that’s just luck — but when it happens you can tell he really meant it.

Jackie O’Neill

Jackie is the town’s salon-and-scandal epicenter, equal parts confidante and dramatist, literally the person people go to for gossip and hairspray (you can smell the hairspray from two blocks away — maybe that’s just me). She’s loud, affectionate, and mysteriously maternal to everyone even when none of them asked, and she’ll fix your lipstick and your life in the same five-minute conversation. There’s a softness behind the theatrics, though, like she’s holding on to hope with one hand and the phone with the other. Also, she has this weird habit of collecting novelty combs — I think she has like twelve of them in a jar? Don’t ask how I know.

Frank Curry

Frank is the quietly competent kind of guy who shows up on time and can fix your truck while dispensing weirdly specific life advice, and somehow he wears flannel like it’s a philosophy. He’s a bit of an enigma because he’s solid and practical but there are these little cracks — a look he gives that suggests there’s more under the surface, or maybe that’s just a tired face, who knows. He doesn’t brag, which makes people underestimate him, and then he does something quietly heroic and everyone is surprised (including him, probably). Also rumor has it he once rescued a dog and then pretended he didn’t care, classic move.

Camille Preaker

Camille is messy-brilliant and exhausted in the best possible way — sharp-tongued, sleep-deprived reporter with more scars (literal and emotional) than social niceties, and I love her for it. She sees through people — maybe too much — and has this gorgeous, weary cynicism that reads like a defense mechanism and a superpower at the same time. She’s sarcastic, tender, and prone to bad decisions when she’s lonely, but she’s also ferociously brave; she will chase a story down into the swamp and not come up until she has the truth. Also she smokes like it’s a punctuation mark and keeps ridiculous souvenirs (I think a tiny jar with something? Don’t quote me).

Ashley Wheeler

Ashley is the kind of younger-town-girl who’s equal parts fragile and ferocious, like she learned to be an actress in a high school drama and then made it a lifestyle. She’s pretty, aware, and a little bit performative — not maliciously, more like she’s always on stage because what else is there to do? There’s this yearning in her that’s desperate for attention but also cunning enough to get it when she wants, and sometimes she slips into childishness in a blink. She collects bracelets, or maybe that’s a metaphor — either way, she is not as simple as she looks.

John Keene

John is the quiet, respectable sort — church pew regular, steady business owner, the kind of man who nods a lot and says “ah” at the right times (or maybe he says “amen,” I forget). He’s got this outward calm that makes him a default adult in the room, but there’s a hint of guardedness like he’s cataloguing everything for later. He can be comforting in a mild, bureaucratic sort of way, and then suddenly he’ll reveal a smug little grin and you realize he’s been keeping secrets for practice. Also, he probably has a meticulous lawn and takes it personally if anyone steps on it.

Bob Nash

Bob is warm and vaguely dad-like in that very midwestern, “how’s your mother?” sense — he does handyman things and tells corny jokes and honestly sometimes that’s the town’s emotional support. He has soft eyes and a portfolio of small-town kindnesses, but don’t let that fool you; he’s also got a stubborn streak and a memory like a steel trap (or maybe a sieve, depends on the day). People go to him because he’s practical and unflashy, and he will show up with coffee and a bandaid and an unnecessarily long monologue about tool maintenance. Bonus: he’s somehow really into jazz records, which is a delightfully specific detail that doesn’t totally fit but I love it.

Alan Crellin

Alan is the neatly respectable figure who seems like the model member of the family until you notice the way things are perfectly arranged — too perfectly — and you start wondering what’s being arranged besides the furniture. He has that calm, well-dressed exterior and speaks in controlled tones, the sort of person whose hobbies include strategic awkward silences. There’s a moral architecture to him (or at least he projects one), but underneath there’s a sense that control costs something, and he’s paid the bill in small, quiet ways. Also, he wears cufflinks that look like tiny anchors, which is either symbolic or kitschy, I can’t decide.

Adora Crellin

Adora is terrifyingly graceful — outwardly immaculate, obsessively maternal, and the kind of woman who can make a casserole feel like absolution and a reprimand feel like heaven-sent advice. She’s suffocating in the sweetest way possible, which is what makes her so fascinating and so monstrous; her love is curated and clinical, a museum-quality devotion that hides a darker need for control. She has this eerie ability to turn attention into a weapon (and tea into an accusation), and she believes in appearances like they are gospel. Also, she always smells faintly of lavender and of course she does; it’s part of the performance.

Amma Crellin

Amma is the wild, dangerous child-woman who can be adorable and vicious in the same breath — she’s charismatic, performative, and unpredictable, a real-life two-faced chameleon who knows how to work a room. She manipulates like it’s a sport and flirts like it’s a language, and she has this uncanny ability to be both irresistible and totally chilling. She’s fiercely loyal to the people she picks (and scathing to the ones she doesn’t), and she treats cruelty almost like a craft. Also she collects songs the way other people collect friends — like she sings them under her breath when she’s planning something — which is oddly charming and very unnerving.