Page 264 of The Professor's Wife

I drove with one hand on the wheel, glancing down at the map when I had to. Every few seconds, my eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

No white car.

No headlights hanging too long behind me.

No Oliver Black appeared out of the dark with that concerned smile on his face.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being moved. Not driving. Moved. Like every choice I made had already been anticipated by someone colder and smarter than me.

About half an hour out, the gas light came on.

I stared at its glowing orange symbol. At first, it didn’t make sense.

“No,” I muttered.

I looked at the gauge.

Nearly empty.

That wasn’t right.

I’d filled up to full this morning. There should have been enough that the needle shouldn’t have been scraping the bottom like this.

The van gave a small, ugly shudder.

My grip tightened on the wheel. I pressed the gas. The engine answered, but weakly. A cold understanding moved through me. This wasn’t a slashed tire—something that would have appeared obviously tampered with. This was more premeditated and quieter.

“Motherfucker,” I whispered.

I pulled onto the shoulder. Gravel crunched under the tires as I killed the engine. For a moment, I just sat there in the dark, breathing through my mouth. Then I got out into the night. I walked to the side of the van and crouched by the fuel door. Itwasn’t hanging open, but the cap was loose. Fucking loose. My stomach sank. Maybe I’d been careless and done it.

Maybe.

But I saw Oliver’s hand tossing me the water bottle and then the way he’d been watching me all throughout our cute breakfast and then outside of my fucking car. The way he’d asked if I’d followed him, like there was a genuine accusation beneath his bullshit humor.

The puffer was gone. The keycard was gone. The gas was gone.

I swore under my breath and went to the back of the van.

I always kept a fuel can. Anyone who lived out of a van and didn’t carry spare fuel was either rich or stupid, and I had never been rich. The red can sat strapped behind the back bench where it always did, tucked under a blanket, right where I’d left it.

For one stupid second, relief moved through me. Then I lifted it. It came up weightless.

Empty.

My hand tightened around the handle as anger raced through me. I shook it. It made no sound. Nothing moved. I stared at the can, my breath turning rough. It was still there. That almost made it worse. Much like the loosened cap, this was a subtle action that made me question my sanity. This was controlled and deniable. Something a deranged fucking professor might do.

I stood at the back of the van with the empty can in my hand and looked down the dark road. I didn’t carry a phone because I was a fucking hippy. It would take me a long while to walk back, but that was the sensible thing to do.

Instead, I returned to the driver’s side and checked the map.

Old Mill Road was still ahead. Not far by car, but brutal by foot.

Was I doing this because he’d bruised my ego? Because he’d one-upped me, and I couldn’t stand letting him have the last move? Or was it the quieter, more unsettling voice in my head telling me this was too fucked up to ignore?

I grabbed the small flashlight from the glove box and pocketed my knife. I started walking, determined and foolish, but too fucking stubborn to stop.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE