Page 167 of Where the Snakes Sleep

There it is. The unspoken truth. There’s no real choice here. I keep my face impassive and ask him, “What would I even do?”

Henri leans back, pleased—as if I’ve accepted a gift he’s presenting. “Whatever you wish.”

“I have a life.”

“In America?” He chuckles, a low, mocking sound that echoes. Okay, rude. “You have nothing left for you there.”

Camille shouts, “Enough! Do not speak to him like that.”

Henri’s gaze flicks back to Camille with cool detachment. “You have done little besides exploit that fact yourself.” Camille goes still. “You recognized his loneliness. You recognized his need for stability and attention. You used both.”

“Stop.” Camille’s voice has gone dangerously quiet.

Henri smiles. “I simply propose to provide those things more honestly.”

I see Camille’s shoulders sag. Shame floods his eyes when he meets mine.

I draw a slow breath. “Actually,” I say, my words slicing through the tension, “you’re wrong.”

He turns back toward me, curious. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“About which part?”

“Camille. He did use me.”

Pain flashes across Camille’s face. Henri looks pleased at it.

“But he admitted it.” The words come out softly, but they carry. Henri’s pleasure fades to blank calculation. I almost allow a small, triumphant smile. “And he gave the choices back.”

Henri’s face goes still—unreadable.

I press on. “He gave me keys to his house and his car and told me I could leave whenever I wanted. He let me stow the evidence he’s hunted for decades without asking where I put it. He let me tie his hands behind his back and order him around for days because I was pissed.”

One of the gunmen abruptly looks away.

Camille closes his eyes.

Apparently that detail did not need to be shared with the home invasion committee.

Henri’s face tightens. “So?”

“You keep saying you and Camille are the same,” I continue, watching Henri’s reaction.

His brow lifts. “And?”

“He learned how to let go.”

Henri’s lips flatten. “You are young.”

“Yep.”

“You mistake temporary guilt for change.”

“Maybe.” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “But I’m allowed to make that mistake.”

His eyes hold mine, and something in them shifts—respect, perhaps.