Page 28 of Where the Snakes Sleep

He makes a slow circuit of the living room—really just the front two meters, since the rest is a demolition zone—occasionally tapping walls, testing windows, making the sort of noises that would be comforting coming from a doctor but alarming from a mechanic.

“He says the western section needs opening,” Camille translates, after a brief volley of French.

“That sounds expensive,” I say, dreading the answer.

“It will be.”

“Fuck… Of course it will,” I mutter. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“He can replace damaged tiles and repair the underlayment. But there’s rot near the chimney.” Camille’s voice is soft, almost sympathetic, but I hear the disappointment in it, like he’s sad for the house the way other people are sad for abandoned pets.

“Also expensive?” I prompt.

“Yes.”

“Fantastic.”

I can’t tell if Camille is enjoying this, or just resigned to it. The roofer says something else—too fast for me to catch, as always—but this time Camille’s expression tightens, just a little.

“What?” I ask, my paranoia sharpening.

“He wants to know if you plan to stay through winter.” Camille looks at me, not unkind but measuring, and I feel instantly five years old.

“Why?”

“He thinks the roof’s just the first problem,” Camille says, sounding genuinely apologetic.

“Meaning?”

“He’s found moisture in multiple walls, windows that need replacing, and movement in the foundation. The chimney must be inspected before any fire is lit, and an engineer should assess the lower structure before any major renovations.”

I feel my stomach drop through the floor. “Lower structure?”

“The foundation,” he says, and his gaze flicks purposefully toward the kitchen, to the loose tiles.

I clamp my arms around myself, like it will hold the house together through sheer force of will.

“Do you know something about the foundation?” I ask, and I try to sound bored, but it comes out like a dare.

“It’s as I told you before. Your grandfather made modifications to the place.” Camille’s voice is smooth and maddeningly neutral, like he’s warning me but refusing to say why.

“That’s not really an answer, Camille,” I say.

“It is the answer I have,” he says, voice going flat.

I step forward, risking the edge of anger. “No, it’s the answer you’ve decided to give me.”

He holds my gaze, but something in him closes, like a door locking. “Ryan…”

“What?” I snap.

“This is not the time,” he says, and I swear the temperature in the room drops by several degrees.

“For what?” I ask, and it feels like a fight, suddenly.

“To discuss this,” he answers, voice barely above a whisper, but still final.

I glance at Monsieur Barthes, who is studiously examining the water stains on the ceiling, pretending not to listen but clearly catching every word.