Page 124 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Relief.

Real relief.

I point at him before he can misunderstand what I am offering. “That does not mean anything.”

“I know.”

“I’m not forgiving you.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not going back because I want to be around you. I’m going because I now have a handwritten diary explaining that Henri Voclain had a very real habit of making inconvenient people disappear, someone already broke into this house, somebody was watching it before that, and I would prefer not to become the exciting fifth name at the end of Alberte’s guilt list.”

Something dark passes through Camille’s eyes at that, but he nods. “That is sensible.”

“Don’t sound so pleased.”

“I am relieved.”

“Well, hide it better.”

“I don’t think I can.”

I look away. “I don’t want to see you.”

He goes still.

“At the estate,” I clarify, because somehow that sounds less cruel even though I mean exactly what I said. “I don’t want dinner together. I don’t want you coming to the guest room. I don’t want you checking on me every twenty minutes. I don’t want to talk about the evidence, or us, or your mother, or my grandfather, or anything else until I decide I can handle it without wanting to throw something at your head.”

Camille listens without interruption.

“I’m going to stay in my room except if I get hungry,” I continue, forcing myself to make every boundary explicit because vague assumptions are apparently how I ended up here. “I will eat when I want. I know where the kitchen is. I do not need you to bring me food, remind me to drink water, tell me I need sleep, or comfort me.”

His mouth twitches.

I glare at him, and it stops.

“And you will not touch my stuff.”

“I won’t.”

“None of it.”

“I understand.”

I fold my arms tighter across my chest. “And if I decide tomorrow that I’m leaving entirely, you don’t stop me.”

Camille’s face changes again, pain appearing with such naked immediacy that I almost regret saying it. “I won’t.”

The silence that follows feels strangely formal, as though we have just negotiated a ceasefire neither of us believes will last.

“I want a minute alone in here, then we’ll go.”

He nods once. “I’ll wait outside.”

He moves toward the door, and I watch him go.

I return to the hidden room one last time, but I don’t crawl all the way inside. I wriggle just past the opening and use my phone flashlight to look around, making certain I haven’t left anything behind. It’s empty. No other notebooks, no secret second USB, no convenient handwritten key explaining every remaining mystery.