Page 82 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I sigh. “I don’t know.”

He studies me, searching for some glimmer of evasion. “Really?”

“Really.”

Not finding it, he asks, “What else?”

I leaf through the documents and stop at an article dated 2003. Its edges are worn, the ink faded. “Three people connected to Le Mas disappeared over several weeks.”

Ryan’s eyes widen. “Three?”

I nod. “Not simultaneously, but close enough that investigators treated them as linked.”

“Who were they?” His voice is quiet.

My mouth suddenly feels dry. I glance at the printed names on the clipping. One sits mere inches from Ryan’s hand.

Nadia Moreau.

I could tell him.

I should.

All I would have to do is move my finger.

Her.

My mother.

Instead, I hear myself say, “Researchers associated with projects at the estate.”

The omission feels physically foul.

Ryan looks back up. “Were they ever found?”

“No.”

“Bodies?”

“No.”

“Anything?”

“Very little.”

He stares, horror dawning behind his eyes. “So people thought Henri killed them.”

“Some did.”

“And Alberte?”

“Some suspected him too.”

Ryan closes his eyes briefly, as if to block the world out. “Fuck.”

“The investigation focused on Le Mas because of the connection, but with no bodies, no crime scene, suspicion just built on rumor.”

“What happened to my grandfather?”