Page 295 of The Professor's Wife

Oliver had plagiarized passages from his students’ essays and published them under his own name. Lucy’s sister, Lynne, had been one of those brilliant students before she died by suicide a year before Oliver and I met. Other vulnerable students had also accused him of stealing their work. They had gone to the university for help, and the university had chosen Professor Black’s word over theirs.

Some of those students later died.

Lucy believed Oliver was responsible, whether he had driven them to it or done something worse.

She had deliberately plagiarized Oliver’s work in an essay of her own, intending to force him to confront her. Before she did, she sent a friend everything she had uncovered: the stolen passages, the ignored complaints, the names of the students who had tried to speak out, and what she believed Oliver had done to silence them.

Then Lucy disappeared.

Tristan told the police about the puffer and the university keycard marked B13 that Oliver had thrown away outside the pub. After he drank from the bottle Oliver gave him and woke hours later, both objects were gone. Though the police didn’t offer a follow-up, I suspected they had been Lucy’s. The thought that Oliver had been disposing of whatever she had left behind never stopped haunting me.

Her friend didn’t find the email for months. By the time she did, Oliver’s reputation had already begun unraveling.

The police still hadn’t found Lucy. I wanted to believe that meant she was alive, but something inside me knew better.

Lucy had been a fighter.

I admired her.

Either way, Oliver Black was ruined. He would forever carry the stain of what had been uncovered.

I’d also told the detective about the cabin. That was months ago. I didn’t know how quickly the police moved, but I hoped they would investigate it.

They had to.

I was certain Oliver’s secrets were piled inside those rooms somewhere—

Inside the lesson room out back.

With all those eyes.

I shuddered thinking about it.

Every time I’d been out there, I had never truly felt alone. The ghosts of his past pulsed through that place, trapped and screaming to be discovered.

Please, discover them.

I looked up at the sky and took a long, cleansing breath. The sun warmed my face as I sipped my coffee and thought of the long day of classes ahead of me.

And Tristan…

He’d be home by the time I was done. Probably preparing dinner because he liked to surprise me. Said it made him feel like he was part of my day even when he wasn’t.

I could picture him doing it: sleeves rolled up, music playing low, chopping away while I came home and moved around him, feeling him up. I smiled and continued toward the university, coffee in hand, already imagining him in the kitchen when I returned home.

The memory of the butterfly stayed on my palm long after its warmth was gone.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

I always loved the drive home.

Tristan’s truck rumbled beneath me, steady and familiar, the cab still carrying the scent of cedar and solder from his last job. He’d let me use it while he carpooled with his workmates—said it made more sense, but I knew he just wanted me to feel like I had my own way home.

The gravel road curved gently, framed by trees that had begun to color with the first signs of fall. I rolled down the window and let the wind tangle in my hair. The sky was softening into dusk, beautiful and dreamy.

And then I saw it—our home.

The log house appeared at the end of the road, tucked behind the trees. It was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. Isolated, yes, but not lonely. The backyard was a tangle of mature fruit trees and blackberry canes—apples, pears, dark berries spilling along the fence. I’d picked them just last week and made a pie that Tristan swore tasted like something his father would’ve made. I’d laughed, but I’d cried a little too, when he wasn’t looking.