The Housemaid's Secret (The Housemaid, #2)

by Freida McFadden

It all started with a simple cleaning job. And now it might end with my blood being mopped off the cabin floor.

Lightning flashes again, and I look down at my palms. They are both stained crimson. I didn’t slip on a puddle of water or some spilled milk. I slipped on blood.

I sit there for a moment, taking inventory of my body. Nothing is hurting. I’m still intact. That means the blood isn’t mine.

It seems somewhat contradictory that somebody who has eight different kinds of moisturizer in her bathroom also owns a dehydrator, but who am I to judge?

This one is zebra printed with a plunging V-neck and sleeves that taper at her slender wrists. She’s paired the dress with matching zebra-printed boots, and while she does look achingly beautiful as always, part of me is not sure if I should compliment her on her outfit or hunt her on safari.

“This is so unfair!” Amber cries. “I breastfed her for over a week! Isn’t that worth anything?”

“Why did she fire you? I thought you said she couldn’t function without you. You said you’re basically raising her child.” “Exactly,” I say. “Her kid wouldn’t quit calling me mama and Amber freaked out.”

“This,” he says, “is the bystander effect. It’s a social psychology phenomenon in which individuals are less likely to offer help to a victim when there are other people present.”