Page 139 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“Not unless you permit it.”

“Photograph anything?”

“No.”

“Touch anything?”

I hesitate, the question echoing in the hushed room. The air smells faintly of old paper and sandalwood. “If you allow me,” I whisper. His mouth presses into a thin line, and I hasten to add, “If you prefer that I only look, I will only look.”

He rises and moves across the low-pile rug to the chair by the tall, narrow window. Rain taps against the glass in uneven rhythms. I remain at my desk, back ramrod-straight.

He notices. His voice softens just enough. “You can come over here.”

His permission warms me more than it should. I stand, muscles stiff with anticipation. I step across the floorboards as though approaching a wary fox—each footfall measured, cautious. I hate the analogy. It reminds me of the suspicion that’s chased us to this moment.

I settle into the armchair opposite him. The leather is cool beneath me. Ryan opens his battered canvas bag on the side table. My pulse hammers in my ears.

The journal is taken out first, and after that, I’m not sure what to expect.

Oh, it’s a plastic case. It looks as if there may be photos inside.

Finally, he plunges his hand into the inner zipper pocket and draws out a small black USB drive. He places it beside the case, and for a long moment I cannot speak.

A lifetime of questions converge in front of me, all compressed into three objects on this table.

My eyes burn with the weight of it. I look away, biting my lip until I taste blood.

He clears his throat. “Camille?”

“I’m fine,” I force out.

He watches me, concern flickering in his eyes. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I may.”

His expression softens. “There’s a letter too. I just put it in the journal so I didn’t lose it. It came in an envelope with the USB.”

“A letter from Alberte?”

He nods. “Yes. I translated it.”

My hands curl into fists on the armrests. “What did it say?”

He pauses, gathering words. “He said the USB contains laboratory records, financial documents, correspondence, import and transfer logs, photographs. Some files are incomplete, and the journal will provide context.” My throat constricts. “He also said not everyone named in the records was willingly involved. Oh, and the drive is encrypted.”

I jerk back, focus returning. “Did he include a password?”

“Not in the letter. He said the answer is hidden somewhere among what he left.” My eyes flick to the plastic case, curiosity and fear warring inside me. He follows my gaze. “I haven’t opened that yet.”

Surprise must show on my face. “You didn’t?”

“I couldn’t handle anything else that day.”

I nod, understanding the tremor in his voice. “That makes sense.”

“I’ve been thinking about what to do. I’ve sorta avoided looking at any of it the past few days. The journal was… a lot. But I had a thought today… What if Henri somehow gets his hands on this stuff? I want your help. I think we should make copies.”

My pulse leaps. “Multiple?”