Page 180 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“Well.” My voice sounds flat in the hush.

Camille shifts against me, the faint scrape of his sleeve on my jacket. I tighten my fingers around his arm. “What?” he asks.

“That was anticlimactic.”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “You have very strange expectations of a home invasion.”

“Sorry, it’s my first one.”

“Ryan.” His tone is soft but firm.

“I’m trying not to freak out,” I confess.

His expression eases. “Ah.”

“Don’t ‘ah’ me.”

A guttural sound interrupts us. We both snap our heads toward Henri. He’s crouched by his cane, fingers trembling as he reaches for the ivory handle. His hand comes away empty. The cane clatters across the polished floorboards, clicking as it spins into the shadows.

His shoulders slump, as though every year of his life has settled into that moment. My heart lurches. Ten minutes ago, I wanted him dead. I still do—probably. But theory and reality collide, and watching a man’s fear feels unforgivingly personal.

Henri lurches toward a nearby armchair. Camille is already there, catching him under the elbow before he collapses. My head snaps to them.

Camille’s brow creases. “What? I am not letting him split his skull open.”

“You’re nicer than I am.”

“No. I prefer the police find an intact crime scene.”

“Put him down,” I mutter as Camille lowers Henri gently into the upholstery. The leather creaks.

Henri tries to shove him away, but his strength betrays him. “Get away.”

Camille slides back, hands raised in peace.

Henri’s chest heaves—each inhale an effort, measured as though he’s afraid his body will betray him if he doesn’t watch every breath. “What’s happening?” he rasps.

Camille kneels beside the chair, voice steady. “Paralysis.”

Henri’s gaze floats across the room and lands on me. Hatred blazes there, hot and unyielding. “You did this.”

I swallow, throat dry. “Yes.”

“Stupid little animal.”

“What happened to nice Grandpa?” I laugh awkwardly.

Henri’s stare never leaves me. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

Maybe I don’t. Adrenaline once made everything clean—he was the monster, Camille was in danger, I had a weapon, and I used it. Now, my hands tremble. I fold my arms to hide them, but he senses it.

He offers a faint, cruel smile. “Regret already?”

“No.” The word flies out too fast.

“Ryan,” Camille says quietly.

“I’m fine.”