Page 116 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Did he decide I would be easier to use if I was sleeping with him?

I stare at the stone floor until the lines blur. Maybe he thought I knew where the evidence was, or maybe he thought Alberte had left some clue for his idiot grandson.

He must have realized pretty quickly that I knew absolutely nothing, but I guess he still figured I could be useful.

I think back to every time he looked at me like I was interesting. Every time I mistook attention for affection when, in reality, it was observation. Just another problem to solve in order to reach a conclusion.

My eyes squeeze shut.

He probably doesn’t even like me that much.

That thought hurts more than everything else.

Which makes me hate myself because exactly how fucking selfish can I be?

Camille’s mother was murdered. His entire childhood was ripped apart. So many people were hurt by my grandfather’s inaction.

And right now, I am sitting on evidence connected to the worst thing that ever happened to Camille, and somehow my brain is busy asking whether he actually likes me.

Pathetic.

The kisses, teasing, casual touches. The way he calls me “petit chaton,” the way he slept beside me on the couch, and the way he looked after me in the shower.

The fucking peaches.

Were those part of it too?

My breathing becomes ragged again. I remember the first time he made me feel cared for enough that I panicked and ran; I invented a brother because I needed an excuse to leave. Camille knew I was lying, but still packed fruit for me. I thought that meant he saw me. Now I wonder if it meant he understood exactly what kind of attention would bring me back.

A sound escapes me—half a laugh, half a sob.

I don’t know what was real.

I told him that was what Paul took from me—the ability to know which memories belonged to the relationship I thought I had and which belonged to whatever Paul had actually been doing behind it.

And now Camille has done the same thing.

For infinitely better reasons, yes, but that doesn’t change how much it hurts.

I fold forward until my forehead touches my knees, cover my mouth, and muffle a scream, then press my knuckles against my sternum as if I can physically hold my chest together.

He used me.

The sentence is still reverberating through my skull when a sound from the kitchen nearly stops my heart.

“Ryan?”

19

Ryan

I tense so hard my head slams into stone, pain flaring white behind my eyes. “Fuck,” I hiss, hand clapping over my mouth.

Too late.

He’s here.

In the cottage.