Page 170 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Henri doesn’t turn toward him. “You see? This needn’t be difficult.”

“No,” Camille says. “Apparently it only requires brain damage.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Henri looks like he’s barely holding back from striking him again. “Be quiet, will you?”

Camille says bitingly, “You struck me in the head with a cane. I believe I am uniquely qualified to mention brain damage.”

One of the men almost smiles.

Henri notices, and the smile disappears.

Interesting.

There are cracks in this whole operation.

Small ones, but they’re there.

The men listen to Henri because they’re being paid. They defer to him because he is the client, not because they worship at his altar. Every few minutes, one of them checks his phone or glances toward the windows, and there is something increasingly impatient in the way the broad-shouldered one nearest the door shifts his weight.

They expected a job—retrieve evidence, intimidate people, maybe kill somebody if required.

They did not expect a family therapy session hosted by Hannibal Lecter.

Henri turns back to me. “We should go.”

“Now?”

“The sooner the better.”

I let some uncertainty creep into my face. “But Camille…”

Henri exhales, faintly annoyed. “We discussed this.”

“I know.”

My gaze drops toward Camille.

His good eye is locked on me.

He is trying to tell me something with it.

Probably run.

Possibly I am going to beat your ass if I survive this.

Honestly, fair on both counts.

“I just…” I let my voice soften. “Can I say goodbye?”

Camille’s expression becomes murderous.

Henri looks from me to him. “Is that necessary?”

I shrug, deliberately making myself small in a way I fucking hate. “I’ve been staying here. We were…” I glance down, twiddling my fucking fingers. “Whatever we were.”

Henri’s mouth curves. “You care for him.”