The Housemaid Is Watching (The Housemaid, #3)

by Freida McFadden

Like, you can talk to somebody without touching their arm. It’s possible.

I’m also mildly jealous of the fact that the kids only seem to have been given one fork each.

By the end of this night, if I have not stabbed Suzette with one of these forks, it will only be because I’m not sure which one to use to do it.

They’re fine. Motherhood is a state of constant low-grade worrying, but I refuse to be the type of woman who puts her child on a leash. At some point, you have to let go even if it drives you nuts.

He ends up peeling off his socks, and underneath the socks, his feet are also dirty, but I guess less dirty than the shoes or the socks. I need to dip this kid in bleach tonight.

There is literally nothing that kills romance quicker than being told that a praying mantis is molting in your house.

And besides, I don’t need a man just to investigate the first floor of my own house. I’ll be fine. Anyway, he’s within screaming distance.

That bug definitely looks like it’s plotting something.

I mean, I don’t think I’m a psychopath, but I didn’t go to prison for picking daisies.

I don’t understand what a mortgage is, but I know it’s not the same as a garage. Like, I’m pretty sure.

I cry too much. Everybody says that about me. I can’t help it though! When I’m sad, I cry. What I don’t understand is why everybody else doesn’t cry more often.

Mrs. Ratner is about a million years old, and I think her smile muscles might be too old to work anymore.

Then I try the doorknob, and it’s locked. Why does a nine-year-old even have a lock on their door? It doesn’t feel like that’s safe. Oh no, I really do sound like Mom. Great, I take after the boring parent. Just my luck.

“Corn flakes for breakfast?” I don’t understand why she looks so horrified by that. What’s so wrong with having cereal for breakfast? I mean, isn’t that what cereal is for?