Thrillers & Suspense
![Nathan Oates - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B00H53XU48.jpg)
A Flaw in the Design: A Novel
A professor's life is turned upside down when he takes in his charming, wildly dangerous nephew, whose wealthy parents have just died under mysterious circumstances, in this propulsive, edge-of-your-seat debut psychological thriller.
"An absolute page-turner . . . I read it in a single sitting."-Miranda Cowley Heller, bestselling author of The Paper Palace
The cleverest psychopaths hide in plain sight.
Gil is living a quiet life as a creative writing professor in a bucolic Vermont town, when he receives some shocking news: His sister and her husband have been killed in a car accident, and their only son is coming to live with him and his family.
Gil and his wife are apprehensive about taking in seventeen-year-old Matthew. Yes, he has just lost both his parents, but they haven't seen him in seven years-and the last time the families were together, Matthew lured their young daughter into a terrifying, life-threatening situation. Since that incident, Gil has been estranged from his sister and her flashy, wealthy banker husband.
Now Matthew is their charge, living under their roof.
The boy seems charming, smart, and urbane, if strangely unaffected by his parents' deaths. Gil hopes they can put the past behind them, though he's surprised when Matthew signs up for his creative writing class. Then Matthew begins turning in chilling stories about the imagined deaths of Gil's family and his own parents. Bewildered and panicked, Gil ultimately decides he must take matters into his own hands-before life imitates art.
Told in limber, mesmerizing prose, A Flaw in the Design is a twisting novel of suspense that brilliantly explores the tensions surrounding class, family, and the drive to control one's own story.
"An absolute page-turner . . . I read it in a single sitting."-Miranda Cowley Heller, bestselling author of The Paper Palace
The cleverest psychopaths hide in plain sight.
Gil is living a quiet life as a creative writing professor in a bucolic Vermont town, when he receives some shocking news: His sister and her husband have been killed in a car accident, and their only son is coming to live with him and his family.
Gil and his wife are apprehensive about taking in seventeen-year-old Matthew. Yes, he has just lost both his parents, but they haven't seen him in seven years-and the last time the families were together, Matthew lured their young daughter into a terrifying, life-threatening situation. Since that incident, Gil has been estranged from his sister and her flashy, wealthy banker husband.
Now Matthew is their charge, living under their roof.
The boy seems charming, smart, and urbane, if strangely unaffected by his parents' deaths. Gil hopes they can put the past behind them, though he's surprised when Matthew signs up for his creative writing class. Then Matthew begins turning in chilling stories about the imagined deaths of Gil's family and his own parents. Bewildered and panicked, Gil ultimately decides he must take matters into his own hands-before life imitates art.
Told in limber, mesmerizing prose, A Flaw in the Design is a twisting novel of suspense that brilliantly explores the tensions surrounding class, family, and the drive to control one's own story.
Editorial Reviews
1
January 2018
there was still time to turn and walk out, pretend he'd never come. The screen, perched on a pillar near baggage claim, listed the New York flight as arrived. Gate 3. Any minute, passengers would come down the escalator in front of him. But right now, he could leave. Escape before his nephew spotted him. Concoct some excuse to tell Molly: The flight was canceled; no, he wasn't answering his phone. Weird, right? Well, maybe tomorrow. Except no, not really. After all, he was the boy's guardian, and they'd track him down. Or the boy would find his own way to their house and that'd be worse, because then he'd know how much Gil feared him. Hated him. Which was the wrong way to think. He should stop. He couldn't stop.
A loosely strung crowd came down the escalator, hurrying through the nearly empty terminal to claim spots at the baggage carousel. Already it was too late. There he was: Matthew, in a short black down coat that was too light for the Vermont winter, a bright white shirt beneath; hair styled in a swoosh; on his face a smirk, the slightest turn of his lips, familiar enough to bring loathing into Gil's throat.
He'd known that the boy would look different after all this time, but he wasn't prepared for this. Once a lanky kid, he was now over six feet, a couple of inches taller than Gil. Matthew stepped around an old man who fumbled with a coat and a rolling bag, bored annoyance moving over his face, as if this was routine, as if he was a young businessman sent from the city to check on some far-flung investment.
Gil waved, and in the acknowledging tilt of Matthew's head he caught a glimpse of his sister. Sharon. Who was dead. Who'd left him this. Her son.
"Well, hello, welcome," Gil said, opening his arms, but the boy stepped back, as if he didn't recognize this gesture, or the man behind it. "How was the flight?"
"The flight?" Matthew said, frowning at the darkened check-in kiosks, the empty car rental desks, the snow blowing in streaks across the asphalt outside, his dopey uncle in his black parka and clumpy winter boots. "I guess it was like most flights. Fine, in that I don't remember anything about it."
"That's great," Gil said. "Do you have any bags?" He pointed at the crowd staring forlornly at the unmoving gray belt.
"Nope. All set," Matthew said, tugging at his shoulder strap.
Should Gil offer to carry it? But the bag was small and easily managed, as if the boy was only here for a weekend. Matthew gave him an indifferent squint, knowing he must wait to be led, though the dynamics that subordinated him to this person were clearly a miscarriage of justice, given their true stations in life. Or Gil was just being a dickhead. Maybe Matthew was standoffish becaus...
January 2018
there was still time to turn and walk out, pretend he'd never come. The screen, perched on a pillar near baggage claim, listed the New York flight as arrived. Gate 3. Any minute, passengers would come down the escalator in front of him. But right now, he could leave. Escape before his nephew spotted him. Concoct some excuse to tell Molly: The flight was canceled; no, he wasn't answering his phone. Weird, right? Well, maybe tomorrow. Except no, not really. After all, he was the boy's guardian, and they'd track him down. Or the boy would find his own way to their house and that'd be worse, because then he'd know how much Gil feared him. Hated him. Which was the wrong way to think. He should stop. He couldn't stop.
A loosely strung crowd came down the escalator, hurrying through the nearly empty terminal to claim spots at the baggage carousel. Already it was too late. There he was: Matthew, in a short black down coat that was too light for the Vermont winter, a bright white shirt beneath; hair styled in a swoosh; on his face a smirk, the slightest turn of his lips, familiar enough to bring loathing into Gil's throat.
He'd known that the boy would look different after all this time, but he wasn't prepared for this. Once a lanky kid, he was now over six feet, a couple of inches taller than Gil. Matthew stepped around an old man who fumbled with a coat and a rolling bag, bored annoyance moving over his face, as if this was routine, as if he was a young businessman sent from the city to check on some far-flung investment.
Gil waved, and in the acknowledging tilt of Matthew's head he caught a glimpse of his sister. Sharon. Who was dead. Who'd left him this. Her son.
"Well, hello, welcome," Gil said, opening his arms, but the boy stepped back, as if he didn't recognize this gesture, or the man behind it. "How was the flight?"
"The flight?" Matthew said, frowning at the darkened check-in kiosks, the empty car rental desks, the snow blowing in streaks across the asphalt outside, his dopey uncle in his black parka and clumpy winter boots. "I guess it was like most flights. Fine, in that I don't remember anything about it."
"That's great," Gil said. "Do you have any bags?" He pointed at the crowd staring forlornly at the unmoving gray belt.
"Nope. All set," Matthew said, tugging at his shoulder strap.
Should Gil offer to carry it? But the bag was small and easily managed, as if the boy was only here for a weekend. Matthew gave him an indifferent squint, knowing he must wait to be led, though the dynamics that subordinated him to this person were clearly a miscarriage of justice, given their true stations in life. Or Gil was just being a dickhead. Maybe Matthew was standoffish becaus...
Readers Top Reviews
kathleen g
Gil has harbored resentment against his sister not only for her wealth after she married well but more importantly because she refused to recognize that her son Matthew caused an accident that harmed his own daughter. But now, she, along with her husband, are dead and Gil has been named guardian for Matthew, at least until he turns 18 in 7 months. You know Matthew has issues but he's doing his best to charm the family, especially Gil's wife Molly, and this only increases Gil's unease. It amps up more when Matthew enrolls in Gil's writing class and this tips Gil over into stalker world. Much of this takes place in Gil's head and while Matthew is certainly untrustworthy, Gil becomes unlikable. It's not as twisty as it could be but Oates did keep me guessing. Thanks to Netgalley for the ARC. A good read.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
January 2018
there was still time to turn and walk out, pretend he'd never come. The screen, perched on a pillar near baggage claim, listed the New York flight as arrived. Gate 3. Any minute, passengers would come down the escalator in front of him. But right now, he could leave. Escape before his nephew spotted him. Concoct some excuse to tell Molly: The flight was canceled; no, he wasn't answering his phone. Weird, right? Well, maybe tomorrow. Except no, not really. After all, he was the boy's guardian, and they'd track him down. Or the boy would find his own way to their house and that'd be worse, because then he'd know how much Gil feared him. Hated him. Which was the wrong way to think. He should stop. He couldn't stop.
A loosely strung crowd came down the escalator, hurrying through the nearly empty terminal to claim spots at the baggage carousel. Already it was too late. There he was: Matthew, in a short black down coat that was too light for the Vermont winter, a bright white shirt beneath; hair styled in a swoosh; on his face a smirk, the slightest turn of his lips, familiar enough to bring loathing into Gil's throat.
He'd known that the boy would look different after all this time, but he wasn't prepared for this. Once a lanky kid, he was now over six feet, a couple of inches taller than Gil. Matthew stepped around an old man who fumbled with a coat and a rolling bag, bored annoyance moving over his face, as if this was routine, as if he was a young businessman sent from the city to check on some far-flung investment.
Gil waved, and in the acknowledging tilt of Matthew's head he caught a glimpse of his sister. Sharon. Who was dead. Who'd left him this. Her son.
"Well, hello, welcome," Gil said, opening his arms, but the boy stepped back, as if he didn't recognize this gesture, or the man behind it. "How was the flight?"
"The flight?" Matthew said, frowning at the darkened check-in kiosks, the empty car rental desks, the snow blowing in streaks across the asphalt outside, his dopey uncle in his black parka and clumpy winter boots. "I guess it was like most flights. Fine, in that I don't remember anything about it."
"That's great," Gil said. "Do you have any bags?" He pointed at the crowd staring forlornly at the unmoving gray belt.
"Nope. All set," Matthew said, tugging at his shoulder strap.
Should Gil offer to carry it? But the bag was small and easily managed, as if the boy was only here for a weekend. Matthew gave him an indifferent squint, knowing he must wait to be led, though the dynamics that subordinated him to this person were clearly a miscarriage of justice, given their true stations in life. Or Gil was just being a dickhead. Maybe Matthew was standoffish because he felt awkward: coming to live with his uncle he hadn't seen in years. That might explain the constricted approximation of a smile. He expected Gil, the adult, to take the lead.
"I'm parked just there in short term," Gil said, turning toward glass doors that held their reflections-blurred and broken by the mounded snow at the curb, the flash of passing headlights-which might've been a tableau from New York. A homeless man (Gil), begging from an annoyed young banker (Matthew).
"You might want to zip up. It's pretty cold," Gil said.
"I'll probably survive," Matthew said, as the glass panes slid apart and freezing air gusted into the terminal.
Waiting for a cab to roll through the crosswalk, Gil caught another glimpse of his sister. The boy had Sharon's profile, the high arch of her cheeks, flushed now with the cold, her gray-blue eyes. Like it or not, Matthew was family, his only nephew, so he should try to see as the boy must: a salt-streaked SUV parked at the curb, the pickup area otherwise empty, a single cop car parked across the way leaking a wisp of exhaust, the lights sharpened in the gusting cold that cut through his coat. A provincial airport in the frozen, depopulated north, where he'd been sent to live among strangers.
Okay, Gil had f***ed up the greeting. But he could do better. All of them, Molly, the girls, they could all make this kid feel welcome after what he'd suffered. Except Gil couldn't help noting, as he pointed the way to the Subaru, that Matthew didn't seem in the least upset. Annoyed. Put out. But not sad. Not destroyed, as any kid should be after losing both parents less than a month ago.
An accident on Sixth Avenue. Their sports car smashed nearly flat by a stolen delivery truck. The driver had fled the scene, escaping down into the subway. In that moment, Matthew had been orphaned, though only just. He was seventeen. By all appearances an adult. Except not in the eyes of the law, which was wh...
January 2018
there was still time to turn and walk out, pretend he'd never come. The screen, perched on a pillar near baggage claim, listed the New York flight as arrived. Gate 3. Any minute, passengers would come down the escalator in front of him. But right now, he could leave. Escape before his nephew spotted him. Concoct some excuse to tell Molly: The flight was canceled; no, he wasn't answering his phone. Weird, right? Well, maybe tomorrow. Except no, not really. After all, he was the boy's guardian, and they'd track him down. Or the boy would find his own way to their house and that'd be worse, because then he'd know how much Gil feared him. Hated him. Which was the wrong way to think. He should stop. He couldn't stop.
A loosely strung crowd came down the escalator, hurrying through the nearly empty terminal to claim spots at the baggage carousel. Already it was too late. There he was: Matthew, in a short black down coat that was too light for the Vermont winter, a bright white shirt beneath; hair styled in a swoosh; on his face a smirk, the slightest turn of his lips, familiar enough to bring loathing into Gil's throat.
He'd known that the boy would look different after all this time, but he wasn't prepared for this. Once a lanky kid, he was now over six feet, a couple of inches taller than Gil. Matthew stepped around an old man who fumbled with a coat and a rolling bag, bored annoyance moving over his face, as if this was routine, as if he was a young businessman sent from the city to check on some far-flung investment.
Gil waved, and in the acknowledging tilt of Matthew's head he caught a glimpse of his sister. Sharon. Who was dead. Who'd left him this. Her son.
"Well, hello, welcome," Gil said, opening his arms, but the boy stepped back, as if he didn't recognize this gesture, or the man behind it. "How was the flight?"
"The flight?" Matthew said, frowning at the darkened check-in kiosks, the empty car rental desks, the snow blowing in streaks across the asphalt outside, his dopey uncle in his black parka and clumpy winter boots. "I guess it was like most flights. Fine, in that I don't remember anything about it."
"That's great," Gil said. "Do you have any bags?" He pointed at the crowd staring forlornly at the unmoving gray belt.
"Nope. All set," Matthew said, tugging at his shoulder strap.
Should Gil offer to carry it? But the bag was small and easily managed, as if the boy was only here for a weekend. Matthew gave him an indifferent squint, knowing he must wait to be led, though the dynamics that subordinated him to this person were clearly a miscarriage of justice, given their true stations in life. Or Gil was just being a dickhead. Maybe Matthew was standoffish because he felt awkward: coming to live with his uncle he hadn't seen in years. That might explain the constricted approximation of a smile. He expected Gil, the adult, to take the lead.
"I'm parked just there in short term," Gil said, turning toward glass doors that held their reflections-blurred and broken by the mounded snow at the curb, the flash of passing headlights-which might've been a tableau from New York. A homeless man (Gil), begging from an annoyed young banker (Matthew).
"You might want to zip up. It's pretty cold," Gil said.
"I'll probably survive," Matthew said, as the glass panes slid apart and freezing air gusted into the terminal.
Waiting for a cab to roll through the crosswalk, Gil caught another glimpse of his sister. The boy had Sharon's profile, the high arch of her cheeks, flushed now with the cold, her gray-blue eyes. Like it or not, Matthew was family, his only nephew, so he should try to see as the boy must: a salt-streaked SUV parked at the curb, the pickup area otherwise empty, a single cop car parked across the way leaking a wisp of exhaust, the lights sharpened in the gusting cold that cut through his coat. A provincial airport in the frozen, depopulated north, where he'd been sent to live among strangers.
Okay, Gil had f***ed up the greeting. But he could do better. All of them, Molly, the girls, they could all make this kid feel welcome after what he'd suffered. Except Gil couldn't help noting, as he pointed the way to the Subaru, that Matthew didn't seem in the least upset. Annoyed. Put out. But not sad. Not destroyed, as any kid should be after losing both parents less than a month ago.
An accident on Sixth Avenue. Their sports car smashed nearly flat by a stolen delivery truck. The driver had fled the scene, escaping down into the subway. In that moment, Matthew had been orphaned, though only just. He was seventeen. By all appearances an adult. Except not in the eyes of the law, which was wh...
