Page 111 of Where the Snakes Sleep

No.

The word forms in my mind like a fist unclenching. It lodges in my throat. I open my mouth. Silence. I swallow. Try again. Still nothing emerges. Maybe there isn’t a word for this.

My mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not a grimace. Just my body’s reflex, reaching for relief and finding none.

I lower the journal into my lap, cradle its weight.

Nadia Moreau. The name screams in my mind.

Camille Moreau. His mother. His goddamned mother.

I squeeze my eyes shut and see him—one, seven, eight.

My eyes sting. I blink hard. No. No—I will not do this. Still, tears burn and spill from the corners of my eyes, carving hot tracks down my cheeks. I wipe them frantically with the heel of my hand.

“Fuck.” This time the word tears out of me, rasping, raw.

I stare into the darkness beyond the hole in the wall. Camille was eight. He knew. Not then—but now. He must know by now. There’s no way he doesn’t. How could he fail to mention that his mother was one of the missing researchers?

My chest constricts. He promised me honesty. That promise glints sharper than any blade—after Paul, after I spilled my wounds about lies and betrayal, Camille took my hand and looked miserable, but promised.

He promised.

And then the very next morning, when I asked him why he cared so much about Henri Voclain, he said that unresolved things bothered him.

Unresolved things.

What a beautiful fucking way to describe your mother disappearing.

I want to be furious.

I am furious, but each time the anger surges, it crashes against the image of that little boy, waiting. And then what? I want to tear across the yard, scream until I’m hoarse, “How could you sit with me, listen to my pain, then keep this from me?” I want to demand an explanation that doesn’t taste like betrayal. And I want—God, I want—to hold him.

That admission nearly shatters me. I press both palms to my closed eyes, seeing blooms of light behind my lids.

Now I understand the gravity of why his life centers on this story, these documents. Why he has shelves heavy with files, why he knows so much about my grandfather, and even why he moved to this region.

My stomach twists, and I find myself wanting to rewind time so that none of this knowledge ever pierces my mind.

Did he approach me because of the house?

The journal suddenly feels too heavy. I put it on the stone beside me.

I know he lied about Nadia.

I know he hid why Henri mattered to him.

I know he omitted his personal connection after specifically promising not to hide anything involving my grandfather, my house, or Henri.

Those are facts.

Everything else is panic filling empty spaces with the worst possible answers.

I learned that lesson with Paul.

Except—

Paul.