Liz Moore’s 2020 novel, Long Bright River, features a police-officer protagonist, a serial killer, and a missing woman—but to call it a mystery, or even a thriller, feels like a stretch. It’s mainly the story of the cop’s relationship with her deeply dysfunctional family, which has been torn apart by drug abuse for two generations, and for long sections there’s scarcely a mention of the killer stalking the streets of Philadelphia, murdering women with impunity. It makes for an unsatisfying read, whose flaws carry over to a new, eight-episode miniseries adaptation. It stars Amanda Seyfried (The Dropout), and premieres on Peacock on March 13.

The novel is narrated by Michaela “Mickey” Fitzpatrick, a 30-something Philadelphia uniformed police officer who, along with her new partner, receives a call about a dead body in an area frequented by local drug users. She immediately thinks that it could be her addict sister, Kacey, from whom she’s been estranged for years; it’s been a while since she last saw her on the streets. The anonymous young woman they find isn’t Kacey, nor is she the victim of an overdose, as expected—Mickey notices telltale signs of strangulation. However, the autopsy comes back inconclusive, so the victim becomes “just another dead junkie hooker on Kensington Ave.,” as far as Mickey’s fellow cops are concerned. Soon, two more women turn up dead in the district, also strangled, and it looks like a serial killer may be at large.

Meanwhile, Kacey is still missing, and Mickey becomes determined to find her, chasing tenuous leads with the help of her kind ex-partner, Truman Dawes, who’s on medical leave. Meanwhile, she neglects her patrol duties, as well as her 4-year-old son, Thomas, leaving him for long stretches with an apathetic babysitter or with a neighbor she barely knows. Along the way, she recalls fraught relationships with a wide range of people, including Kacey, a rebellious young woman with very poor judgment; Gee, the cold, uncompromising grandmother who raised them after their mom died of an overdose; a creep from Mickey’s past, who has a history of grooming teenagers; and her standoffish extended family, which includes several addicts and at least one dealer.

Moore goes out of her way to portray Mickey as a deeply sensitive soul—a person cursed with feelings in an unfeeling world, who just can’t seem to connect with others, no matter how hard she tries. Her initial investment in the serial killer case quickly goes by the wayside in favor of her scattershot search for her sister. As a result, more than 125 pages go by with no real developments in the case, which fans of police procedurals will find frustrating.

Mickey, meanwhile, proves to be a pretty terrible cop—not corrupt or callous but certainly incompetent. When internal affairs officer Denise Chambers suspends her for several valid reasons—including failing to respond to calls during her shift because she was pursuing her own off-the-books investigation, out of uniform, without her radio, and without her loaded weapon, which she leaves unsecured in a deli. Mickey’s response to the situation is comical: “Everything Chambers is saying is, technically, true. And yet I am shocked.” At another point, more than 300 pages in, when Mickey righteously explains her sketchy theories to an experienced detective, the novel betrays how little it cares for basic whodunit mechanics. Says Mickey, “The facts don’t favor me. I’m operating, I know, on a hunch, a suspicion, a gut feeling that doesn’t translate to the outside world.”

The revelation of the killer’s identity, at the very end, feels rushed and arbitrary, as if the author suddenly realized that she had to wrap up that wholemurder thing. Moore is far more invested in Mickey’s grim family saga, which takes a few unbelievable swerves of its own. Not all readers will share that interest.

The new Peacock miniseries, which slowly rolls out over eight long episodes, may also fail to hold viewers’ attention, and for much the same reason: After the initial setup, the murders feel like an afterthought. The show also changes a few key elements, to its detriment. Gee, an intriguing, bitter grandmother character who would have been a great role for, say, Margo Martindale, has been changed to a grandfather for no discernable reason; he’s written as a gruff cliché that not even The Wire’s John Doman can save. The killer now uses a drug as a murder weapon, instead of strangulation, for reasons unknown. And some additional dialogue is simply painful, as when a detective tells Mickey, with a straight face, “The force needs cops like you.…Cops who care. Imagine what this place would be like if we had more of ’em.”

Still, there are a few undeniably good performances; Seyfried very convincingly gets across Mickey’s guarded, insular nature, and NOS4A2’s Ashleigh Cummings brings a vibrancy to Kacey that adds depth to an underwritten character. Mostly, though, Long Bright River simply feels overlong, and not particularly enlightening.

David Rapp is the senior Indie editor.