Page 87 of Where the Snakes Sleep

The shame barely surprises me anymore.

I stand abruptly and move toward the shelving behind the desk, more to escape his scrutiny than because I need anything there. “I have something else to show you.”

“Oh, good,” Ryan says. “I was worried the murder-snakes-trafficking portion of breakfast was over.”

I slide a large archival envelope from the shelf, its paper musty with age. “Your humor is becoming increasingly defensive.”

“Yeah, well, my defense mechanisms are charming.”

“They are certainly persistent.”

He sticks his tongue out at me, and I can’t help but laugh. I’m smiling as I place the envelope on the desk and open it.

Inside are copies of the property surveys, older cadastral plans, and photographs of the cottage taken over several decades. Ryan leans forward as I spread them across the wooden surface, his earlier unease briefly displaced by curiosity.

“What are these?”

“Property records.”

“Why do you have property records for my house?” he asks, sighing.

“Because I have researched Alberte extensively.”

“Uh-huh. That’s totally normal. Not weird at all, Camille,” Ryan mutters sarcastically.

After several seconds, he apparently decides that today contains enough disturbing revelations without interrogating why his neighbor has archival measurements of his house.

He points at the oldest plan. “What am I looking at?”

“The cottage before several renovations.”

“Okay.” He gestures at another sheet. “And this?”

“A measurement taken decades later.”

Ryan studies both, eyes moving between them. “They look the same.”

“They aren’t.” I tap a segment of the exterior wall. “Notice the footprint here.” Then another spot. “Compare with the measured rooms inside.”

His eyes widen as he realizes. “They’re different. A lot different.”

“Hold on.” I pull the photograph from 2002 forward. Alberte and Henri stand outside the cottage beneath summer sunlight, their shadows falling long across the pale stone. I have spent so many years studying the two men that their surroundings became almost invisible.

Until recently.

I point behind Alberte’s shoulder.

Ryan leans closer. “What?”

“There.”

“I don’t—”

“The wall.”

He takes the photograph from me and holds it close to his face. His eyebrows shoot up, and he notes, “There’s a window.” A narrow opening sits low in the stonework, half swallowed by climbing vines. Ryan’s eyes jump to the more recent exterior photograph. “It’s gone.”

I nod as he continues to flip between the two.