Page 113 of The Professor's Wife

I didn’t want my happiness interrupted by June’s despair. Feeling bitter myself, I stopped answering her calls—and she wouldn’t stop trying to call. I stopped inviting her over—and when she came pounding on our door, I never opened up.

I knew what she would do.

She would say something mean about the big house I now lived in. She would remark smarmily about my nice hair and done-up nails. She would make me feel like shit somehow.

I told myself it was for the best.

I lived my dream life. I woke up every morning, reminding myself I was worthy. I wasMrs. Black.Everyone looked at me differently. I wassomething. No longer the invisible, insecure little girl in constant peril.

Oliver Black had rescued me.

Nothing would take that truth away.

But then, one day, June left me a voicemail.

Her voice was soft. Shaky. She said she’d had a dream. That everything finally made sense, and she knew how to make it right.

“It’ll be okay,” she said. “Everything will be okay.”

I stared at the phone for a long time.

And I didn’t call her back.

The voicemail haunted me.

“I had a dream, Daisy. It all makes sense. I can make this right. I know... I know what I have to do. It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”

I replayed it twice. Then a third time. Her voice was soft, almost serene. But there was something final in it. It made my stomach twist.

I didn’t call her back.

I told myself it was because I was busy. Because I was newly married. Because I didn’t want to invite her sadness into my joy.

But the truth was, I was afraid.

She might say something else to poison my happiness. I was afraid that Oliver was right—that she was bitter, jealous, and trying to ruin what I had.

I was also afraid she was right. That I would ruin this, and she would have the final laugh.

So, I ignored her.

I told myself I didn’t regret it. That I hadn’t given it another thought.

And then…

Then she was gone.

Two days later, June was found dead in her apartment. She hadn’t shown up for work, and after hours of unanswered calls, her supervisor requested a welfare check. The building manager let the police inside. The police said it appeared she’d ingested something poisonous. Something homemade. There was no note. No explanation. Just the voicemail she left on my phone. Just the dream I would never know about.

Toxicology would later confirm that she’d ingested a poison she had concocted herself.

I collapsed when the police officer delivered the news in person. My knees buckled, and I screamed so loudly Rowe started crying. Oliver held me, but I felt nothing. Just numbness and utter disbelief.

She was my sister.

My fucking sister.

She’d raised me. She’d helped me raise Rowe. She’d been my anchor when I had no one else.