The Teacher(90)

We both get out of the car, and Hudson reaches for my hand. He laces his fingers into mine, and when he smiles at me, I smile back. As we walk to the diner together, I decide that I am going to get a vanilla milkshake with a lot of whipped cream and a cherry on top, because I deserve a treat.





THE END


DID you enjoy reading The Teacher? Click here to check out other unputdownable psychological thrillers by Freida McFadden, now available on Amazon!



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Acknowledgments

When I was writing The Teacher, I said to my teenager, “Do you think you could write me a poem that a teenager would think is really deep, but it’s actually painfully bad?”

In response, she sat down beside me, snatched the laptop from my lap, and said, “Give me two minutes.” I then watched her create the greatest bad poem I had ever seen. I was blown away. “It’s so perfect,” I told her before I obviously changed a bunch of things.

With the publication of The Teacher on the horizon, I reminded her of that poem she wrote for me. I told her how much I loved it, and that I was going to give her credit for the poem in the acknowledgments. And she said, “Ugh, please don’t.”

Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t have told that story.

Well, she’s not going to read this book anyway because she would rather die. Someday when she’s all grown up, she’ll have this to look back on and feel mildly embarrassed and/or nostalgic.

Thank you also to Jenna Jankowski (who Hudson absolutely was not named after, but it just proves some things are truly kismet) for your amazing feedback and help with shaping this book into the story it became, as well as to the entire Sourcebooks team for an incredible job. Thank you to my mother, who always is the first one to read my books and never, ever understands the twist at the ending. Thank you to my beta readers, Pam, Kate, and Emily. Thank you to Daniel and Val for excellent proofreading. And a huge thank you to my agent, Christina Hogrebe, and the JRA team for your support!

Last but definitely not least, thank you thank you thank you to all my readers! I am genuinely just so grateful to all the readers out there who have supported me on my journey. I hope my books have brought you even a tiny bit as much joy as it has given me to see so many people reading them!



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Afterword

Did you enjoy reading The Teacher?

If so, please consider leaving a review on Amazon! Also, check out my website, where you can sign up for my newsletter and get updates on my books: http://www.freidamcfadden.com/

You can also sign up for my newsletter directly. And to get updates about new releases, please follow me on Amazon! You can also follow me on Bookbub! Or join my super cool and fun reader group, Freida McFans!

And now please enjoy a short excerpt of my book, Never Lie…



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Never Lie

We’re hopelessly lost and my husband won’t admit it.

I can’t say this is atypical behavior for Ethan. We’ve been married for six months—still newlyweds—and ninety percent of the time, he’s the perfect husband. He knows all the most romantic restaurants in town, he still surprises me with flowers, and when he asks me about my day, he actually listens to my answer and asks appropriate follow-up questions.

But the other ten percent of the time, he is so stubborn, I could scream.

“You missed the turn for Cedar Lane,” I tell him. “We passed it like half a mile down the road.”

“No.” A scary-looking vein bulges in Ethan’s neck. “It’s up ahead. We didn’t pass it.”

I let out a frustrated huff as I clutch the printed directions to the house in Westchester, courtesy of our real estate agent, Judy. Yes, we do have GPS. But that signal went out about ten minutes ago. Now all we’ve got to rely on are these written directions. It’s like living in the Stone Age.

Well, Ethan wanted something out of the way. He’s getting his wish.

The worst part is that it’s snowing. It started a few hours ago, back when we were leaving Manhattan. When we left, they were cute little white flakes that evaporated on contact with the ground. Over the last hour, the flakes have quadrupled in size. They’re not cute anymore.

Now that we have turned off the highway, this more deserted, narrow road is slick with snow. And it’s not like Ethan drives a truck. His BMW has gorgeous hand-stitched leather seats, but only front-wheel drive, and he’s not incredibly skilled at driving in the snow either. If we skidded, he probably wouldn’t even know whether to turn into the skid or out of the skid. (Into the skid, right?)

As if on cue, the BMW skids on a patch of slushy ice. Ethan’s fingers are bloodless on the steering wheel. He rights the vehicle, but my heart is pounding. The snow is getting really bad. He pulls over to the side of the road and holds out his hand to me.

“Let me see those directions.”

Dutifully, I hand over the slightly crumpled piece of paper. I wish he had let me drive. Ethan would never admit I’m better at navigating than he is. “I think we passed the turn, Ethan.”

He looks down at a sheet of typed directions. Then he squints out the windshield. Even with the wipers going full speed and our high beams on, the visibility is horrible. Now that the sun has dropped in the sky, we can only see about ten feet ahead of us. Everything past that is pure white. “No. I see how to get there.”