The Flatmate

I’ll admit, I rolled my eyes at first. *Another* unreliable-narrator thriller? But *The Flatmate* won me over by sidestepping the genre’s usual pitfalls. Thorne’s strength is her laser focus on the banality of violation—Sophie’s flatmate doesn’t slash tires or leave threatening notes; she *reorganizes the fridge* and calls it ‘helpful.’ The horror isn’t in the exceptional; it’s in the way Thorne weaponizes the ordinary. That said, the midsection sags slightly under repetitive cycles of suspicion and gaslighting. A few more concrete clues (or red herrings) would’ve tightened the tension, rather than relying so heavily on Sophie’s internal monologue. Gemma Dawson’s performance, though, is a masterclass in audiobook acting. She makes Sophie’s fear palpable without veering into histrionics, and her delivery of the flatmate’s lines is *unsettling*—all warm vowels and cold precision, like a therapist who’s definitely judging you. The production is clean, with no distracting edits, though I’d have loved a touch more atmospheric sound design (a creaking floorboard here, a too-loud kettle there) to heighten the claustrophobia. The ending, while satisfying, won’t shock you—but the journey there is a deliciously uncomfortable study in how quickly ‘home’ can turn into a gilded cage. If you’re burned out on over-the-top thrillers but crave something that’ll make you side-eye your roommate, this is your fix.