The Mystery Guest (Molly the Maid, #2)

by Nita Prose

She was always late, armed with a panoply of excuses that sometimes induced a rage in me so profound that I wanted not only to fire her but also to set fire to her, an uncharitable thought, I admit.

“Wash your hands before you get back to work. Remember: sanitation is our obligation.”

It’s true, I had learned one thing from my classmates, which is that the saying about sticks and stones was all wrong. They had given me ample practice at dodging both projectiles, and even when their missiles met their mark, the bruises faded over time. But words—the sting of them, the stigma—endured forever. Their words sting to this very day.

I feel what she feels; her emotion passes through my skin and burrows right into my being.

“Sometimes bad shit happens for a good reason, Molls, you know what I mean?” “I do,” I say. “My gran used to say the same thing…minus the fecal expletive.”

just now, Snow was getting googly eyes around Grimthorpe’s personal secretary…though I’m not so sure she’s really a secretary, if you know what I mean.” “For the record,” I say, “I have absolutely no idea what you mean.”

Shame is the scar the demons leave behind.

I look at my face in the mirror. I’m carrying luggage on it—matching black bags under my eyes.

My gran. She was always like that. She always found a way to ignite hope. And what is hope if not the decision to shine light into the dark?

Cheryl is about to say something but then thinks better of it. Her lips are so pursed they call to mind the puckered orifice of a cat’s hind end.

“Me?” I ask, turning to the reporter in front of me. “Why would I know anything? I’m just a maid.”