I was looking forward to diving into a thriller for the holidays—something gripping and fast-paced to contrast with my recent read, The Brothers Karamazov. Unfortunately, my excitement didn’t last long. Perhaps it was my own circumstances—a frustrating bout of sciatica—but finishing The Maid’s Diary felt more like a chore than an escape.

Let’s start with the characters. Daisy drove me absolutely mad. How can a woman degrade herself so completely for a man who isn’t even hers? A man who cheats on her constantly and drugs and assaults women? I couldn’t wrap my head around her choices, and frankly, it left a bitter taste.

The story itself felt bloated. There are so many plot threads—detectives who aren’t particularly compelling, a swimmer subplot that feels disconnected, and a slew of secrets that fail to spark curiosity. The twists didn’t grip me, and at times, I found myself asking, why do I even care?

And then there’s the witness with cancer. It felt unnecessary, almost exploitative. Life is already cruel enough; do we really need to add this level of sorrow to a thriller?

It took all my willpower not to abandon the book entirely. While I appreciate its attempt to reflect harsh realities, it wasn’t the kind of thriller I enjoy. The narrative lacked the intensity and intrigue I crave, leaving me unsatisfied and ready to move on to something else.