Page 161 of Where the Snakes Sleep

That part isn’t acting.

It really was tragic.

Not romantic.

Not beautiful.

Just unbearably sad.

“He wanted you to be someone else so badly,” I murmur. “Or maybe he wanted you to be who he thought you were in the beginning.”

Henri’s gaze drops. His thumb moves once over the polished head of the cane.

“He never stopped hoping,” I add.

Camille makes a low sound from somewhere near the floor, but we both ignore it.

Henri looks back at me. “And you believe that means he still loved me.” There is something hungry in the question.

I let myself hesitate, then nod. “I think he did.” Henri inhales slowly. “I think that’s what made it so horrible for him.” His expression hardens slightly. I soften my voice further. “Because if he’d hated you, leaving would’ve been easy.”

That gets him; I see it happen.

“He did love me,” Henri says.

It isn’t a question.

I look down at my hands. “I think part of him always did.”

Camille says my name sharply. “Ryan.”

“You know what the saddest part was?”

“What?”

“He kept writing like love should have been enough.” Henri’s face softens, and I swallow. “And it just wasn’t.”

For a minute, neither of us speaks.

The room feels strange around us, too quiet despite the men with guns and Camille bleeding a few feet away.

Henri leans closer to me. “I think you understand Alberte better than Camille does,” he says.

I make myself smile faintly. “Maybe I just understand wanting somebody to turn out different than they did.”

Henri’s eyes stay on mine.

Good.

Keep looking at me.

Keep thinking I’m grieving with you.

Keep forgetting Camille.

And keep coming closer.

I glance down, just quickly, and see how ashen Camille’s skin has become. I don’t know whether it is the head wound or sheer stress.