Page 271 of The Professor's Wife

No.

I thought of the cuffs. The chain. The scratches in the wood. I knew what kind of place this was now. I could feel it pressing in on me from all sides.

And if I crawled away while someone stood inside that cabin waiting to be found, then what the fuck was I?

Oliver was halfway to the shed. I looked from him to the open door.

I’d take one look. That was all. One look inside. If there was no one there, I’d leave. I’d run so hard my lungs split open. I’d find the road. Find the van. Walk back to town if I had to just to get away from here.

Oliver reached the shed, and I moved. I bolted from behind the woodpile, keeping low, every muscle in my body screaming at me to stop. I crossed the two steps to the porch and touched the back door cautiously. I winced, waiting for the creak, but there was none. The door opened quietly, and I slipped inside.

The kitchen was dark and cool. The smells hit me first. Soap. Wet wood. Something metallic from the sink. The cloth lay folded beside the basin, dark and wet. A brown smear marked the edge of the porcelain where the water had not quite taken everything. I stared at it, my mind reaching again.

Rust.

Clay.

Mud.

Not blood.

But my throat tightened.

I looked toward the far wall. There was a chair, and a long coat hung from a hook near the hallway, thin enough to resemble a person through the window. It could explain what I had seen.

Could.

I moved closer anyway.

My boots left wet prints across his perfect kitchen floor. I didn’t care. He knew someone was here, and he thought that someone was in his fucked-up shed. I touched the coat. It was wool and damp.

“There’s no one,” I whispered.

I turned toward the hallway. There was a sitting room off to one side, dark and perfect, all leather and books, like something out of a magazine.

I stepped into it, scanning. The moon touched the edges of the furniture. The shelves were full of philosophy texts. There was a fireplace with kindling stacked in a neat little pyramid. A basket of folded throws. I tried to picture Daisy having folded them after she’d relaxed on the couch, reading one of his what-the-fuck books.

There was no woman here.

I backed out.

A closed door stood at the end of the short hall. My hand went to the knife in my pocket, my instincts on high alert. Something felt wrong. I could sense it in the air. This heavy feeling at the pit of my stomach, screaming for me to leave.

I opened the door.

It was a giant bathroom, and it was empty.

I found another door across from the bathroom by the kitchen and opened it. It was a large bedroom. The curtains were spread; the moonlight illuminated the room. The window had a direct view of the yard and dilapidated shed. I could picture the fucker with his mug of coffee, staring out, knowing his wife or whoever the fuck was in there. Chills ran down my arms at the thought.

Oliver was still inside that shed. He’d probably notice very soon that the chain had been touched. If he looked harder, he might notice the page that was missing—currently folded inside my pocket.

I refocused my attention on the room. Time wasn’t on my side. The bed was massive and made. A dresser stood against the wall with nothing on top but a lamp and a book placed square with the edge. I didn’t need there to be much light to know it was an immaculate bedroom. The very one Oliver slept in with Daisy. I stared at the bed, that knot in my chest tightening.

There was something on there.

I took a step closer, my eyes drilling into the long piece of fabric. A nightgown. Brilliantly white. Folded neatly in the center of the mattress, like it had been placed there for someone expected to arrive.

I stared at it longer than I should have, trying to understand why that single piece of fabric made my skin feel slick with sweat.