Page 89 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“For a few nights,” he repeats sternly before narrowing his eyes. “Why do you look so pleased?”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I am pleased that you are making a sensible choice,” I say. He scoffs loudly, pretending to be offended. “Now go. Shower.”

He rises, but pauses at the door. “Camille?” I look up. His expression has softened, vulnerability shining in his eyes. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“For actually telling me.”

The guilt that seizes me is immediate and perfectly deserved. “You asked.”

His fingers curl around the door frame. “You could’ve kept doing what you were doing yesterday. Giving me little pieces. But you didn’t.”

I say nothing.

Ryan mistakes my silence for discomfort and smiles faintly. “I know honesty isn’t your favorite.”

The words cut deeper than he intends. “I am learning.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

He disappears down the hallway; the soft click of the guest bathroom door follows a moment later, then the muted rush of water through pipes.

I stay where I am until I’m sure he can’t see me and then lower myself back into the chair. The file lies open, Nadia Moreau’s name staring up at me in bold type.

I could tell him. I could tell him about my mother, my father, and the years afterward.

Each confession would make the next easier until nothing would be left concealed between us.

I picture Ryan’s face.

He wouldn’t be angry at first, I don’t think. He would understand why I approached him, but then he would reconstruct every encounter with the new information exactly as he described doing with Paul.

The dinners, the flirting, the small talk—everything. He would ask what was genuine, and I would have to tell him the truth. Far more than I intended. Far sooner than I wanted.

I close the file over Nadia’s name.

Coward.

16

Ryan

Camille makes the mistake of telling me he will be busy for most of the day.

I don’t think he realizes it is a mistake when he says it.

Actually, judging by the way he stands at the kitchen island in a crisp white button-down with his sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, drinking coffee as if he has never once experienced an intrusive thought in his entire life, I’m reasonably certain he believes he is merely informing me of his schedule like a normal person.

“I have a presentation at eleven,” he says, glancing at the watch around his wrist. “Then questions afterward. I expect to be occupied until at least fourteen hundred.”

I pause with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Fourteen hundred.”

Camille looks at me. “Two.”