Page 140 of Where the Snakes Sleep

He inclines his head. “Yes, I think that’d be best.”

“That would be wise,” I agree.

“Maybe we send them to a journalist or a lawyer. Oh, we should send one of them to my grandfather’s lawyer. I think she only handled the estate stuff, but I mean a lawyer is a lawyer, right? And if Alberte trusted her, then she’s probably okay.”

“I think that would be great. What about the police, though?”

He nods and exhales, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders. “But I decide when.”

“Okay.”

He looks up. The space between us grows weighty, charged. “You can look at it.” My heart stutters. “With me,” he adds quickly. “Honestly, I think I’ve been waiting to look at the case and USB because I’m a little scared about what will be in there. I would like to look at it with you. Oh, and um, you should read the journal, too; I think it’ll be important.”

I stare at him. “You want to look at it right now?”

His eyes dart away. “If you’re ready,” he says. “If not, we can wait. You can read the journal first if you want.”

I think of it sitting closed on the table, the green cover already imprinted on my brain. I have read enough narratives in my life to know that sometimes the more you wait, the harder it gets to open the next page.

Better to just do it.

I reach for the case first. It’s only slightly heavier than I expect, just enough to be disappointing if you’re hoping for something momentous. Which I am, in a way.

I pop the plastic latch and raise the lid.

22

Ryan

The first photograph is of Camille’s mother.

I know before Camille says anything, although the woman smiling up at us from inside the plastic case looks different from the photographs I saw in newspaper clippings, where Nadia Moreau had been reduced to the visual language of tragedy with grainy university portraits, one passport-style picture printed beneath a headline asking where she had gone, and another image of her leaving some conference with her face turned away from the camera.

This Nadia is alive in a way those women weren’t.

She is sitting in the grass in front of Le Mas with her legs crossed at the ankle, one hand lifted as if she has just realized someone is taking her picture and is halfway through telling them to stop. Her dark curls are wild from the wind, and there is a broad, unguarded smile stretching across her mouth that makes something in my chest hurt before I even look at Camille.

He has stopped breathing.

Not metaphorically.

I watch his chest remain completely still beside me as he stares down at the photograph held delicately between his fingers.

“Is that her?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.

Camille swallows. “Yes.” His voice barely exists.

I don’t touch him.

Five days ago, that would have been instinctive. I would have leaned into his shoulder, reached for his hand or something. Now I don’t know whether comfort would help or hurt, whether he would interpret it as forgiveness, whether I would interpret it that way myself, so I stay where I am and let the space between our chairs remain untouched.

Camille turns the photograph over.

There is handwriting on the back. The ink has faded to a dull blue, but the words are still visible.

Pour Alberte — puisque tu refuses toujours d’être sur les photos. Nadia, juin 2000.

Camille translates automatically, his voice more stable when it has something concrete to do. “For Alberte—since you always refuse to be in the photographs. Nadia, June 2000.”