Page 165 of Where the Snakes Sleep

The armed men wait, their weapons trained on us but their attention drifting, uncertain whether this is still an operation or something they didn’t sign up for.

Henri’s fingers rest lightly on his cane; he turns to Camille. “You wish to tell me what you did with the documents?”

Camille lifts his head, blood slowly congealing at his temple. “No.”

“Come now,” Henri says, the first hint of impatience in his voice. “You must see the futility. Distribute as many copies as you like—to lawyers, police, American journalists. In twenty-four hours, the news cycle will move on. The only thing you accomplish is ensuring a few more people die uselessly.”

“That,” Camille says, lips curling, “is more than you accomplished.”

Henri laughs, a sound so dry it strips the oxygen from the room. “You really are your mother’s son.”

Camille’s jaw tightens. He looks at me, and for a second it’s just the two of us against the world, a single current humming between us.

Henri sees it, too.

“You love him,” he says.

Camille doesn’t answer. Neither do I.

“I am a monster,” Henri says, “but you—Camille, you are a hypocrite. You are furious at Alberte for loving me and hating himself for it. You are angry at your mother for disappearing, at your father for dying, but the truth is, you want to become what you hate. Otherwise, you would never have set your sights on Ryan.”

Camille growls, “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Don’t I?”

“You couldn’t even keep Alberte, let alone a child. You destroyed everyone you ever touched, and—”

“And so will you,” Henri says. “Unless you let go.” The words hang, weightless and crushing. Henri shifts, rolling his shoulders, and looks back at me. “Tell me,” he says, “did you ever want to know your grandfather?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know. I didn’t even think about him until recently.”

Henri watches me with an eerie patience. “He was a coward, but he loved deeply and without shame. Perhaps more than any of us deserved.”

Camille shifts, struggling against the tie holding his hands. “Stop,” he rasps.

“I would have provided everything,” Henri says.

“Everything except a legal guardian who wasn’t a murderer,” I mutter.

Henri’s irritation grows. “You make this sound absurd.”

“It is absurd.”

“No. I am offering you what Alberte should have offered years ago.”

“Which is?”

“A family.”

The word hangs between us.

I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

Because somewhere inside Henri Voclain’s completely broken understanding of human attachment, he genuinely seems to believe this makes sense.

Alberte belonged to him.