Page 125 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Of course not. That would be too easy.

I put Alberte’s journal back into its protective bag, then tuck it beneath my arm. The USB stays inside my pocket. The plastic case goes under my shirt because suddenly I have become the kind of person who smuggles historical evidence against his own rib cage.

I grab my hammer too. Not because I think I’ll need it. It just feels wrong leaving it behind after everything.

Five minutes later, I step outside.

Camille locks the cottage after I hand him the key, waits while I test the door myself, then walks beside me across the property with enough space between us that another person could comfortably fit there.

That distance hurts, but it’s needed.

By the time we reach the estate, the light has softened toward evening, and every muscle in my body aches from hours spent crouched inside stone. Dust has dried along my arms and neck, and my face feels tight from tears.

Camille opens the door for us, then remains downstairs as I make my way up to the second level.

Each step takes me farther from him, yet I remain hyperaware of his presence below, listening unconsciously for footsteps that never follow.

When I reach the guest room, I enter and close the door. I lock it.

The room looks almost offensively peaceful.

My clothes are still folded where I left them this morning. My charger snakes over the nightstand. The bed is the same mess I left it as.

I cross to my bag and open it.

The journal goes in first. I hesitate before letting it go, but when the faded green cover disappears beneath a folded shirt, it actually makes me feel lighter.

The USB comes next. I take it out of my pocket and hold it between my fingers. Such a tiny thing. Twenty-three years of fear potentially stored inside something smaller than my thumb. I put it inside the zippered interior compartment of the bag.

Then the plastic case—that one I stare at longer.

I still haven’t opened it.

I could.

Camille is downstairs, and I am alone. No one would stop me.

But I don’t have any room left in me for another revelation today, so I put it away and zip the bag closed.

For tonight, that’ll have to be enough.

I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let my shoulders drop. I kick off my shoes, crawl onto the bed without showering despite the dust coating practically every inch of me, and pull the blanket over my legs.

Somewhere downstairs, Camille moves through his enormous house. I hear a door close, then nothing.

He keeps his promise, and leaves me alone.

I stare at my bag where it rests beside the nightstand, three objects hidden inside it that have already destroyed the version of my life I woke up with this morning.

Tomorrow I can figure out what to do with them.

Tomorrow I can decide what to do about Camille.

Tomorrow I can worry about Henri, police, evidence, dead men, murdered mothers, and whatever the fuck is stored on an encrypted flash drive from 2003.

Tonight, I am going to lie here and be angry.

Not understanding.