Page 80 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“If you wish to sleep in the guest room, you sleep in the guest room. If you want the door locked, lock it. If you decide tomorrow morning that staying here was a terrible idea and you would rather take your chances with the suspicious car than listen to me speak for another hour, I will think you have lost your mind, but I will still let you go.”

Ryan’s mouth twitches despite himself. “That last one was almost sweet.”

“It wasn’t intended to be, but I won’t argue it,” I say, finally letting some of the tension out of my shoulders at the reappearance of his snarky humor.

Ryan chuckles lightly, then turns back to the monitor, wrapping both hands around his coffee mug, although whatever warmth it contained has long since dissipated.

“What about the cottage?” he asks.

“What about it?”

“I’m not abandoning it.”

“I did not ask you to.”

“I need to keep working on it.”

“Okay. We can return during the day,” I reply. “Together, preferably.”

He doesn’t seem to appreciate that. “Preferably?”

I sigh. “Ryan… I just want you to be safe. But if you must go over alone, I won’t stop you.”

“That’s better. Alright, as long as it’s only for a few nights,” he acquiesces, filling me with relief. He then takes another sip of his cold coffee, grimaces, and puts it back down. “But I’ll only stay if you explain to me what’s really going on. Now.”

I made a promise. I have already violated its spirit simply by withholding the oldest and most important pieces. Still, I cannot bring myself to confess everything.

However, I can stop treating him like a child wandering through a dark room while I decide which lights to switch on.

“Okay.”

I turn away before my guilt can become visible to him and reach for the thick file I keep two shelves above my desk, the one bearing Henri’s name.

I set the folder down between us as Ryan stares at it as though something might climb out.

“Jesus Christ, Camille. How much information is in there?”

“Not enough.”

I open the file. The first photograph is professional, a group shot taken decades ago at a university function. Henri is younger, perhaps in his mid-thirties, dressed in a dark suit, his expression composed without looking too stern. He is handsome in the way men with absolute confidence often are—not because there is anything extraordinary about his face, but because he wears it as though he has never once wondered about his worth. He stands with two other academics.

Ryan gingerly picks up the photograph. “Which one is he?” I point to Henri in the center. “That’s him? He looks more normal than I thought he would.”

I chuckle. “What were you expecting?”

He shrugs, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Honestly, no idea. Just more eccentric or something? But whatever. Tell me about him.”

“He was highly respected for many years,” I explain. “Medicine first, then toxicology and pharmacological research involving animal venoms. His work attracted attention because there was—and remains—legitimate potential in compounds derived from venom for medical applications.”

“So like medicine made from snake venom?”

“In very simplified terms.”

I turn another page.

A photograph of Le Mas from the late 1980s occupies most of it. The main house sits low against the landscape, broad and pale beneath the southern sun, with several detached structures visible beyond it.

Ryan leans closer. “That’s Le Mas? It’s huge.”