Page 75 of Where the Snakes Sleep

This evening, he came downstairs because he could not sleep.

He sat beside me because he was angry, then told me the worst thing anyone had ever done to him, and in turn, I promised him no more lies, no more secrets.

I have never felt more ashamed.

Ryan shifts in his sleep, his forehead brushing beneath my jaw, and I lower my gaze toward him.

I’m not sure how to move forward from here.

On one hand, I continue on the path I’m on now, find whatever Alberte has hidden, and put a rest to the past 23 years. My mother and father will finally be granted their justice. Ryan will return to the States, and we will become nothing more than something that used to be.

On the other hand, I wake him, tell him everything, and… what? There are too many possibilities. Perhaps he’d forgive me, maybe even assist in my efforts, or he could despise me, find the evidence himself, and destroy it in anger. But what if Henri is already involved? Making Ryan my accomplice would put him in danger. Right now, he knows nothing, and it’s possible the mere fact that he’s Alberte’s blood is shielding him.

My stomach turns, and my gaze falls to Ryan again.

I imagine waking him. Imagine those green eyes opening slowly, confused by sleep. I imagine telling him that the man holding him now approached him with an agenda.

That the casual conversations were calculated.

That when my attempts to make myself indispensable failed, I recognized his attraction and deliberately encouraged it.

I imagine watching comprehension spread across his face, then disgust, and it scares me.

It scares me because I feel things for Ryan that I have never felt before. And I’m not sure where exactly this strange relationship of ours is headed, but I want to find out.

But are feelings I can’t even put names to really worth forgoing a lifelong obsession to avenge my family?

I rest my chin on Ryan’s hair and squeeze my eyes shut, as if I can will the answer to form behind my eyelids. But the darkness here is full of nothing—no wisdom, no ghosts of my parents, not even the clarity of my own conscience.

In this moment, I am not a man on a mission, nor the keeper of my parents’ memory, just a body holding another, our edges blurring into one heap of human frailty.

I do not sleep. I listen to the hissing of the radiators and the periodic creaking of ancient timber. At some point, Ryan’s hand finds mine beneath the blanket, fingers curling reflexively around my thumb. I try to imagine myself as deserving of that touch.

I try not to think about what it will mean—when I finally have to choose.

Ryan wakes first, which I find in itself remarkable. I am used to being the one on high alert, scouring every half-waking moment for sabotage, disappointment, or the simple, boring arrival of morning. Instead, sleep takes me at some point—no memory of surrendering, just a slow fuzzing of the world into muffled nothingness—and now I wake to the feel of Ryan shifting against me, sunlight broad and buttery-white across the library carpet.

He stretches, pushing his face into my neck, making a small noise that is almost a sigh but softer. Then, blinking rapidly, he comes to—emerald eyes, lashes clumping at their roots, an ambiguous expression like surprise flavored with suspicion.

I say, “Good morning,” and he tenses, as if the words are foreign.

It takes him a second to process being cradled, and another to decide whether it is acceptable. He does not pull away, but the thought is definitely there.

“Did you sleep?” he asks, voice fogged by sleep.

“A little,” I say, which is the truth.

He radiates unease. It has become his default setting, but I can sense how hard he is working not to ruin this tentative peace.

I reach a hand to his face and brush hair from his forehead. It’s a stupid, unplanned movement, almost paternal, and I hate how natural it feels. He closes his eyes, only for a second, as if the sensation is physically overwhelming.

“Do you think the police will follow up today? Or would that be too soon?” he asks, dragging me into the present.

“I imagine they will contact you if they discover anything useful.”

“That just sounds like a polite way of saying no.”

“It is a realistic way of saying that someone entered an old house without being seen, stole nothing of obvious value, and left behind no conveniently labeled calling card.”