Finlay Donovan Is Killing It Quotes

My Google search history alone was probably enough to put me on a government watch list. I wrote suspense novels about murders like this. I’d searched every possible way to kill someone. With every conceivable kind of weapon.

It’s a widely known fact that most moms are ready to kill someone by eight thirty A.M. on any given morning.

You can’t spend your whole life shut up in that house, making up stories.

It’s a widely known fact that most moms are ready to kill someone by eight thirty A.M. on any given morning. On the particular morning of Tuesday, October eighth, I was ready by seven forty-five. If you’ve never had to wrestle a two-year-old slathered in maple syrup into a diaper while your four-year-old decides to give herself a haircut in time for preschool, all while trying to track down the whereabouts of your missing nanny as you sop up coffee grounds from an overflowing pot because in your sleep-deprived fog you forgot to put in the filter, let me spell it out for you. I was ready to kill someone. I didn’t really care who.

Nick and Vero glanced up as my heels clicked into the kitchen. Vero looked confused. “I’m sorry. Do I know you? Because I thought I worked for a vampire in yoga pants.

We are not adding grand larceny of farming equipment to our growing list of felonies.

You never want to be the asshole that leaves a message promising to kill someone for being late, only to find out they’ve already been murdered.

My relationship with Panera was complicated. I liked their soup. Panera didn't like that I'd poured it over another customer's head. In my defense, Theresa had started it when she'd attempted to justify her reasons for sleeping with my husband.

She chuckled darkly. “And to think you were worried about a damn shower curtain. Nothing says ‘serial killer’ like a chest freezer in a garage.

Let us not attribute to malice and cruelty what may be referred to less criminal motives.’ I make it a point never to assume the worst about people.

Sometimes, she'd said, you can't see the whole story until it's laid out on the page, and the only way to figure out what happens next is to write your way through it, one scene after the next, until it's done.

pasted on a strained smile. Steven knew how to break things, too. Like dreams and wedding vows.

The devious curl of his lip suggested we had different definitions of professional, and I recoiled as he brushed a stray lock of hair from my face with the tip of his finger. “But tell me,” he said, slipping his hands back in his pockets, “what was the detective after?

I concede that getting drunk and stuffing a wad of Delia's Play-Doh in the exhaust pipe of Theresa's BMW may not have been the best way to handle the news when he'd told me they were getting engaged, but letting her walk away with half my advance and my husband felt like salt in the wound.

She said she’d received a death threat at her house and she’d been too afraid to say anything to the police, because she didn’t believe they could protect her. OCN sent someone over to her house to check out her claim, and sure enough, they found a knife mark in her back door, exactly where she told them to look. Apparently, her story checks out.

I told them I didn’t recognize the woman’s voice on that recording, but if you insist on spreading all these wild conspiracy theories, convincing the police that some psycho is out to kill me just so you have an excuse to keep the kids away from me, I’m going to get Guy involved and then I’m calling your sister.

A few of Delia’s stray hairs tickled my wrist as my fingers snagged on the sticky roll of duct tape I’d used to fix her hair. Something bit me as I shoved it aside. With a yelp, I whipped my hand from the bag. A thin line of blood beaded along my fingers. Carefully, I plucked aside the blood-stained burp rag I’d used to clean my daughter’s forehead that morning. Below it, I found the dull kitchen knife I’d thrown in with it, along with the keys to my van.

I’d been the one to put Theresa in the spotlight, even if I hadn’t intended to. I’d used her name and worn her clothes. I’d crossed a lot of lines these last two weeks, but if I let Nick arrest her for my mistakes, what kind of monster did that make me? This. This had to be the line I wasn’t willing to cross. I couldn’t bring Harris back from the dead, but maybe I could keep someone else from paying the price.

Careful not to disturb the police tape, I rummaged through the contents of her locker, pulling back a sweatshirt from its hanger.

I’d liked South Riding, before the divorce. Back before I’d known my husband was sleeping with our real estate agent, who also sat on the board of the homeowners association. Somehow, I’m guessing that’s not what the saleslady had in mind when she’d described our suburban mecca as having a “small-town” feel.

In the bright sunlight, his irises seemed torn between subtle shades of green and gold, and I was pretty sure I’d be content staring at them until they made up their mind.

I left exactly the way Steven wanted me to, out the back where no one would see me, past the fallow field at the end of his farm, the last few acres of dirt he hadn’t yet gotten around to covering over with something new.

More tension!’ No, dammit. No more tension!

Easy for her to say. She was twenty-two and had never had children. She could probably hold it until menopause.

Iris Smiled, endorphins loosening the stern lines of her face. She actually looked like she was enjoying this. The woman was a masochist.

No. No, no, no! You cannot be dead!’ I hollered at his lifeless body in my most commanding mommy voice.

Let us not attribute to malice and cruelty what may be referred to less criminal motives.’ I make it a point never to assume the worst about people

The group grunted with a collective burst of speed, like something out of a nightmare.

Fantasies where I let myself calculate how many economy-size packs of Huggies, Lean Cuisines, and baby wipes fifty thousand dollars could buy.

There was nothing in this story about hot young bartenders who studied law, or real estate agents who stole other people’s husbands. There were no subplots involving lewd photos or extorted hush payments. No mentions of custody battles or starving authors doing questionable things to pay their bills.

A curtain shifted in Mrs. Haggerty’s kitchen window. She’d be on the telephone first thing tomorrow, making sure all the neighbors knew Steven was here, having a clandestine meeting in his truck with his ex-wife.

Unfortunately, the man’s made of Teflon. Nothing sticks. He should’ve been locked up a dozen times, but there isn’t a judge in the state with the balls to convict him. Even if we could, he has friends that can make almost anyone disappear . . . new name, new passport, and wipe them off the map as if they’d never existed.

I’d have a better chance of winning the lottery than landing Feliks Zhirov in prison. We’re here because every ounce of Zhirov’s business is dirty and dangerous. And if Theresa’s working for him in any capacity, then she’s

Or be recognized when I’m abducting scary rapists from bars, breaking into real estate offices, or taking contracts to kill problem husbands while eating cheesecake in Panera. Through all of this, I had never stopped to consider that my headshot— which appeared in every copy of my books— was now an incriminating piece of evidence

He’s not going through Theresa because she’s an agent. He’s going through her because she’s about to become an owner. Legally, this whole farm becomes hers the minute she marries your ex-husband.

Ever heard of Hanlon’s razor?

If we get caught, we’re not hiring some Abercrombie underwear model to keep us out of prison.

I’d been hired to kill an enforcer for the Russian mob. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure which was scarier— the possibility that I’d be caught by the police for a murder I didn’t commit, or the likelihood I’d be murdered by Andrei Borovkov once he learned what his wife had done.

Maybe I was unfit to mother my own children. Steven had never been the model parent, but the plot of my own life had gone off the rails since he’d left, and I was no closer to knowing what to do about it.

One that came with health insurance and paid sick days and didn’t involve diapers. Or corpses.

Theresa was all about social cachet and prestige. If there was a chance to flaunt a high-profile client like Feliks by sticking her head out of the roof of his slick black limousine and shouting it to the moon, she wouldn’t miss a chance to do it.

You can’t spend your whole life shut up in that house, making up stories. We have real-life bills and real-life problems you need to deal with.

Subs or Chinese?' I asked Vero. 'Even killers have to eat, right?