Page 79 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“What are we looking at?” Ryan leans in.

“A car,” I say quietly. “I saw one like it two weeks ago.”

He sets down his coffee, eyes wide. “Saw it outside? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it was nothing.”

“You thought enough of it to remember.”

I meet his gaze. “I watched for it afterward. It never returned, so I convinced myself I was seeing significance where there was none.”

I scour the archived footage from two weeks prior. Minutes pass, and Ryan finishes his bread. Finally, I find it—the same sedan moving unusually slowly. I freeze both images side by side.

“They look the same,” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell for sure?”

I zoom in as far as I can without making the image too blurry. The plate would be impossible to read, but there it is—a crack in the left taillight.

He leans so close his shoulder brushes mine. His breath is warm against my neck. He squints, then his eyes widen.

He sinks back in his chair, pale. “So they were here before—before the break-in.”

“Yes.”

“Watching the cottage?” He looks like he’s about to lose the breakfast he only just ate.

“It seems that way, yes. You could argue that they were surveilling my property, but the car stalls in front of your yard.

His face pales even further, to the point I’m concerned he may faint. “Why?” he whispers shakily.

My protective instinct surges. “Ryan…” His eyes find mine. “You should stay here, at least for now.”

A frown appears. “I’m not moving in.”

“I know.”

He stares at me. “So what, it’ll be like an extended sleepover?”

15

Camille

I search his face for defiance or bravado, a sign that he might be joking, but what I find is only wariness—an aversion to being caged. His shoulders hunch, chin ducking toward his chest, and I realize I have already lost him for this moment.

I exhale through my nose and lean back in my chair, deliberately increasing the distance between us, which Ryan immediately notices. His eyes flick toward mine with a question in them.

“I phrased that badly,” I tell him, folding my hands loosely over my stomach, resisting the impulse to reach for him. “What I meant is that I would feel considerably better if you stayed here until we understand who has been watching the cottage and why.”

“That sounds almost exactly the same,” he points out.

“The distinction is that I am asking. If you decide to return to the cottage, I will not stop you. I will most definitely argue with you, because I think it is an unnecessary risk, and I reserve my right to tell you that your decision-making is appalling, but I won’t prevent you from leaving.”

He stays quiet, so I add, “You would remain a guest. Your cottage remains yours. Your things remain there unless you decide to bring them here. You can come and go whenever you like. There will be no expectation that you tell me where you are every moment of the day.”

His eyes seem to lose some of their apprehension upon hearing that.