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The Book of Flaws is a series of dark, interrelated confessions. The author allows the readers to delve into the thoughts of each character, providing a glimpse.
Table of contents

I called both my uncle Peter and our lawyer, Philippe Montaigne. Can you be patient with me? He was a rough-looking character, like a bad cop in a black-and-white film from the forties who smoked unfiltered cigarettes, had stained fingers, and was coughing up his lungs on his way to the cemetery.

Caputo looked to be about thirty-five years old. He had one continuous eyebrow, a furry ledge over his stony black eyes. His thin lips were set in a short, hard line. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shiny blue jacket, and I noted a zodiac sign tattooed on his wrist. He looked like exactly the kind of detective I wanted to have working on the case of my murdered parents. Detective Hayes was an entirely different cat. He had a basically pleasant, faintly lined face and wore a wedding ring, an NYPD Windbreaker, and steel-tipped boots. He looked sympathetic to us kids, sitting in a stunned semicircle around him.


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Caputo stood with his back to our massive fireplace and coughed into his fist. Then he looked around the living room with his mouth wide open. He took in the eight-hundred-gallon aquarium coffee table with the four glowing pygmy sharks swimming circles around their bubbler.

His jaw dropped even farther when he saw the life-size merman hanging by its tail from a bloody hook and chain in the ceiling near the staircase. And he stared at Robert, who was slumped over in a La-Z-Boy with a can of Bud in one hand and a remote control in the other, just watching the static on his TV screen. Robert is a remarkable creation.

He really is. He was cast from a real person, then rendered in polyvinyl and an auto-body filler composite called Bondo.

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Robert looks so real, you half expect him to crunch his beer can against his forehead and ask for another cold one. We just blinked at him. There were no hysterics. In fact, there was no apparent emotion at all. No one here loved them? To start with, my parents were complicated: strict, generous, punishing, expansive, withholding. And as a result, we were complicated, too. I knew all of us felt what I was feeling—an internal tsunami of horror and loss and confusion. Not even to save our lives. From the look of outrage he directed toward the cops, I got the feeling that he felt they were villains, and that he wanted to take Sergeant Caputo apart like a rotisserie chicken.

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The thing is, Hugo is probably as strong as a full-grown man. I thought he could actually do it. He looked adorable, as he almost always did. He was wearing an enormous Giants sweatshirt over his pajamas. My twin brother, Harrison—aka Harry—sat on the red leather sofa across from Hugo. You would like Harry; everyone does. I wear my hair below my shoulders, sometimes with a headband. He wears Harry Potter—style dark-rimmed glasses.

We both twirl our hair with our fingers when deep in thought. I do it clockwise, and he does it in the other direction. Harry also has a great smile. I guess I do, too, but I almost never use it. Harry uses his a lot. His breathing sounded wheezy, like he had a harmonica in his throat, which meant an asthma attack was coming on. She worked for Maud, and that made her a suspect, too. She stood behind Hugo with her hand on his shoulder, her sandy-colored braid cascading over her pink satin robe. Her face was drawn and pale, as if her heart had stopped pumping.

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I thought she might be in shock. For an instant, the room was completely quiet, as Caputo watched us to see how we would react. I found myself wishing more than anything that my older brother, Matthew, would suddenly appear. And Matthew, I was sure, would know how to deal with these police officers. Are we all clear? My mother was like a perpetual-motion machine, never stopping, hardly sleeping at all. She seemed to barely notice people—even her children.

Her strength was in analyzing financial markets and managing the billions in her exclusive hedge fund. My father co-owned Angel Pharmaceuticals with his younger brother, Peter. He was a chemist with a gigantic brain and enormous gifts. Unlike my mother, Malcolm engaged with us so intensely that after a few minutes of contact with my father, I felt invaded to the core.

You can probably imagine that the constant press toward perfection might affect your relationships with others and the expectations you have of yourself. Still, somehow the Angel kids survived this—perhaps by a means that I might describe as… not entirely natural. For the moment, I decided to use the skills my parents had driven into all of us, and to refuse to react the way Caputo wanted me to.

If only Caputo could interrogate Robert. You see, Robert sees stuff. He knows stuff. About the Angels. About me. But I know it happened because one day I was the best lacrosse player at All Saints, and the next day I woke up in the hospital with fifty stitches in my foot and leg. Maud said she never thought lacrosse was good for me, anyway. I would never play again. Malcolm announced that my Big Chop was going to be repairing Robert so that he was as good as new.


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Hugo was the only one who saw what happened. They killed her! How could I do that?

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More important, though, was why I would do that. Could I really have been talking about my dead sister, Katherine? But the Garcias just want to lead a peaceful life as cattle farmers, seeking civil discourse as everyone around them prepares for war. Each timeline has its advantages and disadvantages. The past features much more immediate drama.

Their low-key moments help ground a few sequences that could otherwise feel excessively violent.