Page 117 of Where the Snakes Sleep

My body locks. I press the journal to my chest, curl in on myself, every instinct screaming to disappear. If I stay absolutely still, maybe Camille won’t notice the gaping hole I smashed into the kitchen wall.

“Ryan?” He’s closer now, inside the kitchen. His voice, softened by stone, holds something unexpected—fear. My chest twists. Fear? For me? Him? It’s another wound.

I squeeze the journal tighter, knees drawn in, praying for extra seconds—one minute where he doesn’t know what I know, one minute before our worlds collide and everything shatters.

His footsteps pause. A shoe scratches tile. Then there’s silence. I imagine him seeing the destruction, the mess of dust and plaster everywhere.

“Ryan.”

My throat clenches. I close my eyes, picturing his face. I don’t want him to see me.

A shadow crosses the hole, and he appears, crouched just beyond reach. He can barely see me from this angle.

His gaze lands on the journal, and he freezes.

That’s the moment he knows. He needs no words. He sees the proof I found—Alberte’s secrets, Nadia’s fate, the evidence of forty years.

“Ryan,” he says again.

“Don’t.” The word is rougher than I intend.

“How long have you been here?”

I laugh, a cracked sound. “That’s your question?”

“It was the first thing I managed to say. I couldn’t find you, Ryan. You weren’t answering your phone. I’ve been worried.”

“Congratulations.”

“Ryan—”

“Nadia.” I level him with my tears and fury.

His voice is a flat confession. “…Yes.” His subsequent quiet makes me want to scream.

I shove the plastic case in my pocket and crawl forward through the hole, journal first, because I can’t bear the suffocating space between us.

“Be careful, it’s sharp—”

“I said don’t,” I reply coldly.

He stops and slowly rises from the floor. I scramble out into the kitchen, shouldering past rough edges until I stand on shaking legs. I back away, needing distance—even though every atom of me wants to collapse into him.

Camille looks wrecked. Perfectly neat shirt, hair in place, posture taut. But I know him, or thought I did. My eyes burn with questions I’m too scared to voice.

“Did you know I was coming?” I force the words out. “To France?”

His silence answers before he speaks.

“Yes and no,” he eventually admits, albeit quietly. “I knew the property transferred to you, and I knew you were coming, but I didn’t know exactly when.”

I stare at him. “Would you have approached me if we were neighbors somewhere else, away from all of this?”

He meets my gaze. “I can’t say.”

“Was the sex part of the plan?” I force out.

“No.” His voice breaks. “Only at the start.”