Page 159 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Camille’s expression shifts from panic to raw disbelief as I cross the room. “Ryan.” His voice is strained. I ignore him. “Ryan.” Still ignoring him. “Ryan, for fuck’s sake—”

One of the men drives the heel of his hand between Camille’s shoulder blades, forcing him forward with a choked gasp.

I stop dead. My entire body goes rigid, fists clenched at my sides. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

The man looks toward Henri with a questioning gaze.

Henri gives the smallest shake of his head. “Il n’est pas nécessaire de le malmener davantage.” There’s no need to rough him up any more.

I don’t know exactly what he says, but the meaning is clear enough when the man removes his hand.

Henri turns back to me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Please.” He indicates the sofa once more, his fingers elegant and steady.

This is fucking bizarre.

I sit. Not beside him exactly—there’s a respectable cushion and a half between us, which feels like the appropriate amount of personal space to maintain when sharing furniture with your dead grandfather’s homicidal ex-boyfriend during a home invasion.

Henri seems pleased—actually pleased. He adjusts the lapel of his wool coat, settles the silver-topped cane carefully across his knees, and looks at me with such calm, unnerving interest that I momentarily feel as though I should ask if he wants tea.

Camille looks ready to have an aneurysm. A fresh trickle of blood traces the line of his jaw. “Ryan,” he says carefully, “you do not need to entertain him.”

Henri glances toward him without turning his head fully. “Quiet.”

I turn my attention to Henri, ignoring Camille. “You wanted to talk to me?”

His smile returns. “Yes.”

“Then talk,” I whisper, voice rough as gravel.

Camille emits a furious hiss, nostrils flaring.

Henri’s lips curve in a slow smile, emerald eyes glinting. “There,” he murmurs, each syllable soft as silk. “That is my Alberte.”

A shiver races down my spine; my skin pricks with gooseflesh.

“Pretty sure it’s Ryan,” I counter, folding my arms across my chest.

He inclines his head, tone indulgent. “Yes, of course. But mannerisms survive in families in such interesting ways—even between strangers. The tilt of your chin when you’re irritated, that tension around your mouth.”

He leans forward, studying me as though I were a map of hidden faults. I sit still, allowing him to look all he wants, even if it’s really fucking creepy.

Because I need him looking at me, thinking about me, interested in me. The more interested he is, the less attention he pays to Camille. And maybe the closer he gets.

“Did you know him well?” I ask, heart thudding.

Henri’s gaze softens—a subtle drop in his shoulders. “Yes. For many years.”

Camille scoffs.

Henri ignores him.

“I, uh—he left a journal. I read it,” I say.

“Ah,” he replies, nodding solemnly. “I imagine he did not make me sound very nice. Alberte always wrote when he was upset.”

“You don’t seem bothered by that,” I press hesitantly.

“I can’t deny we had a tumultuous relationship at times,” Henri says, his tone distant.