Page 164 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“I know he knew.”

I stare. “What?”

Henri’s expression remains calm. “He knew his son was struggling.”

“You’re lying.”

“No.”

My heart starts pounding. I don’t want to believe him, but, unfortunately, Alberte secretly tracking his estranged family while convincing himself that watching from afar somehow counted as care feels exactly like something Alberte might have done.

Another cowardice born from guilt.

Another decision made because involvement frightened him.

Henri sighs. “It frustrated me.”

I almost miss the sentence. “What did?”

“That he refused to intervene.”

“You were frustrated?”

“Very.”

I stare at him. This conversation has officially crossed beyond insane into some new dimension.

“And what did you want to do?”

Henri looks almost surprised by the question. “I considered intervening myself.”

Camille’s face transforms. “What?”

Henri glances at him. “But of course, that was impossible.”

“Because you aren’t related to me,” I say.

“Yes.” He says it like that was the only obstacle. “As Alberte and I were no longer publicly connected, and I had no biological relationship to you, removing you from your parents would have been viewed rather unfavorably.”

911, hello? “Viewed as kidnapping,” I mumble.

Henri smiles faintly. “If you insist on inelegant terminology.”

“Oh, my God.” I actually laugh—I can’t help it. It is not amusement. My brain has simply exceeded its maximum capacity for insanity and begun producing inappropriate sounds. “You considered kidnapping me.”

“Rescuing you.”

“Kidnapping.”

Henri’s eyes narrow slightly. “You were a child living with an impoverished addict and a sickly mother who couldn’t care for you.”

I want to scream, but hold it back. I feel a hysterical laugh bubbling in my throat. “My mother was sick because of my father, actually,” I say. “He, ah, gave her hepatitis, and that led to liver cancer. She would have taken care of me if she wasn’t so busy, you know, dying.”

Henri just studies me, gaze flicking between my eyes. “Even so,” he says, “a child should have had better.”

I shake my head. “I was fine.”

He smiles, bright and cold. “All parents fail their children. Some more than others.”