Page 123 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“I know that too.”

The silence stretches between us again, but it feels different now, less like the aftermath of an explosion and more like the uneasy stillness after discovering there might be another one somewhere nearby. I look toward the windows once more and hate how quickly the cottage has changed around me. Just hours ago, it was mine in a way it hadn’t felt like since the break-in, because I had come here alone and reclaimed some small portion of control by doing exactly what Camille told me not to do.

Now every shadow outside looks occupied, every little sound potentially someone coming to hurt me.

Case in point—a branch scratches faintly against the roof, and I flinch, almost dropping the book.

“I can call the gendarmerie and ask them to send someone,” he offers, obviously pitying me.

“No.” The response comes quickly. I do not want police here yet, not while Alberte’s evidence is sitting exposed and I have no idea who to trust, especially after what he wrote. Maybe that suspicion is twenty-three years out of date. Maybe it is completely irrational. Doesn’t matter. Right now, I do not have enough information to decide, which means I am not handing the only copies of anything to anybody.

Camille seems to understand without forcing me to explain. “Then I will remain outside.”

I rub both hands over my face, and the grit still clinging to my palms scratches unpleasantly against my skin. “Ugh.”

“You do not have to decide anything about the evidence tonight,” he says as I finish groaning.

“That’s easy for you to say,” I grumble.

“No, it is not.” His voice is so quiet that I look at him again.

For the first time since crawling through the wall, I really notice how relentlessly his attention avoids the journal. His gaze has flicked toward it occasionally, yes, but every time it does, he seems to drag himself away again. This thing contains his mother. Two decades of searching, and she is right here in my hands. I can’t imagine what it costs him not to demand it.

That doesn’t make me forgive him.

Unfortunately, it does make me believe that when he says his concern is about me, there is at least some truth to it.

I hate ambiguity. Really and truly, I have had enough of it for one lifetime.

“I don’t want you sitting outside all night,” I tell him, sighing.

“Maybe not, but I will not leave you here completely alone. I refuse to.”

“No…”

I don’t want comfort from him, but I also do not want to be in here alone anymore.

The realization makes me feel weak, which makes me angry all over again, although this time the anger is mostly at myself. There is nothing inherently brave about spending the night in a compromised cottage because I am too stubborn to admit that somebody may be watching it. There is certainly nothing brave about keeping the only known evidence against a potentially murderous man in a house that has already been broken into before.

Camille’s estate is safer—significantly safer. There are cameras, a gate, working locks, and alarms.

Also snakes.

Not that the snakes are an official security system, but I could throw them at an intruder—and probably get myself bitten in the process. Maybe just having the snakes can be a deterrent by itself. Like how people talk about big dog privileges? Deadly snake privilege is probably a thing too. And if it’s not, it totally should be.

Off-topic.

So yes, Camille’s home is definitely a safer option than staying here tonight, but the problem is Camille lives there.

I stare at him; he waits.

Fuck.

This is exhausting.

“I’ll go back with you.”

Camille’s entire posture changes. It is subtle, but not subtle enough. His shoulders lower. The terrible tension around his mouth eases. He releases a breath that sounds suspiciously like he has been holding it since he entered the cottage.