Page 153 of Where the Snakes Sleep

The men become more alert, one speaking quietly into an earpiece while another moves toward the front door.

Another moves toward the front entrance.

My pulse slows rather than accelerates.

Henri is coming, isn’t he?

For years, I have constructed him from fragments.

Henri Voclain has occupied more space in my life than many people I have actually met, yet until this moment he has remained abstract, a constellation of consequences surrounding an empty center.

Footsteps sound in the entrance hall. There is the distinct tap of a cane against stone.

Then he appears.

Age has done what age does, but less than I expected.

Henri is seventy-seven now, and the man entering my sitting room no longer looks like the young researcher beside Alberte in those photographs, except around the eyes. His hair has gone almost entirely silver and is cut neatly away from a face made narrower by time, the skin along his jaw loose enough to betray his age despite the expensive tailoring of his dark coat. He uses the cane in his right hand, though not heavily; it seems more of an accommodation than necessity, the slight stiffness in one leg suggesting arthritis or an old injury rather than frailty.

He is not physically imposing at all, but for most of my life, he has occupied my imagination as something enormous.

Yet Henri Voclain is simply an old man.

His gaze finds me immediately, and he smiles. “Ah, Camille. Nous voilà enfin face à face.” Ah, Camille. Here we are, finally face to face.

My mother’s killer says my name as though we are old friends.

I say nothing in return. Henri walks closer, cane tapping softly against the floor.

As he closes in, the man holding me forces me down onto my knees, making me grunt.

Henri stops mere inches away from me, his cane resting on the floor between us. Looking down at me, he says, “J’ai suivi votre carrière, vous savez. Vous êtes loin d’avoir atteint mon niveau, bien sûr, mais votre parcours n’a rien de méprisable. Votre mère serait très fière de vous.” I have followed your career, you know. Not nearly as accomplished as I, but nothing to scoff at either. Your mother would be very proud.

The words hit exactly where he intended.

I snarl, “Ne vous permettez pas de parler en son nom.” Don’t you dare presume to speak for her.

Henri studies me, genuine curiosity in his expression, as if I am a result he has been waiting years to observe. “Vous avez ses yeux.” You have her eyes.

I laugh once, without humor. “Ma mère avait les yeux bruns.” My mother had brown eyes.

His head tilts. “Pas la couleur. Cette façon de regarder les autres comme s’ils vous étaient inférieurs.” Not the color. The way you look at people like they are below you. Henri glances toward the men around us, then back to me. “J’aimerais maintenant récupérer ce qui m’est dû. Les dossiers, je vous prie.” I would like what I am owed now. The files, please.

One of the armed men looks uncomfortable. “Il a dit qu’ils avaient été envoyés ailleurs.” He said they’ve been sent somewhere else.

Henri does not. “Je m’étais douté que cela pouvait arriver. Je veux les originaux.” I assumed that might be the case. I want the originals.

I frown, not expecting such a casual response. “Vous avez été démasqué. Vous avez perdu. Ça ne vous fait rien ?” You’ve been exposed. You’ve lost. Doesn’t that bother you?

Henri looks toward the dark windows, his lips tilted up in amusement. “Il est intéressant que vous croyiez qu’il ne s’agit encore que de documents. Quelques preuves dérisoires ne m’importent guère.” It’s interesting that you think this is still only about documents. Some silly evidence means very little to me.

For a moment, I simply stare at him.

I have imagined Henri frightened.

I have imagined him furious, cornered, watching decades of careful concealment collapse around him while journalists, prosecutors, researchers, and every institution he manipulated finally turned their attention toward what he had done.

I imagined satisfaction in that.