Page 171 of The Professor's Wife

“Daisy,” Oliver said warmly, but I knew there was a hidden edge in his voice. “Can’t keep them waiting, sweetheart.”

I let him go, and my body wanted to riot.

I stood slowly, watching Oliver take his hand next and lead him past the gate and to the bus. This wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right.

I inched closer to the gate. Oliver knelt before Rowe to speak to him. Whatever he said made Rowe nod once.

To my surprise, Oliver hugged him, and once more, my body protested this.

I didn’t want him to touch my son.

Didn’t want him near him—

Maybe this was going to save my boy in the long run.

Rowe looked at me once before he climbed the steps of the bus. The attendant was there to guide him.

I shook horribly as the bus door folded shut with a hiss, swallowing my little boy inside.

His small face appeared in the window, pale and uncertain. His gaze was back on mine, and his lips moved. I didn’t know what he said.

He pressed his hand against the glass.

I forced myself to smile and wave, but I was hollow.

All too quickly, the bus drove away, but I still didn’t budge from the gate.

On the way inside, Oliver paused by the gate.

“Five minutes,” he said. “It’s not a good look to be out here longer than that.”

My eyes remained distant on the road the bus had disappeared down, but I stiffened a nod to let him know I had heard him.

When he disappeared, I wrapped a hand around the bar of the gate and pressed my face against the cool metal.

“We were in the light.”

I sucked in a breath, held it, and then let it out slowly.

Not for the first time, I whispered, “I’m sorry, June.”

Oliver was already at the table when I returned, reading an article on his laptop, acting as though he hadn’t stolen the only thing in my world that mattered.

The hours crawled by. I tried to clean, to busy my hands, but everything I touched slipped through my fingers.

The house felt empty.

Cold.

Sad.

In the pit of my stomach, a sickening weight pressed down, making it hard to breathe. Again and again, I reminded myself that at least Rowe was away from Oliver.

At least he was safe.

The knock came at the door just past noon.

I had been in my nook area, about to reread The Republic, when the persistent knocking broke through the air, interrupting my mindless reading. I set Plato back on the shelf and went to answer.