Page 183 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“Hypocrite.”

“Yes.”

“At least you admit it.”

“I find that confession improves character.”

Despite everything, I laugh—a harsh, ragged sound that stings my throat. It curdles into a sob. Camille’s face softens. He reaches for my cheek, hesitates. I catch his wrist and guide his palm to my skin. Warm. Living. Nothing like Henri’s. And somehow everything like him. At that moment, I understand that being human isn’t the problem. Choice is. How you wield another person’s trust. How you honor their “no.” Whether love binds you tightly or teaches you to open your hands.

I lean into his palm. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.”

“I mean really mad.”

“I know.”

“I might be mad for months.”

“I would be grateful for months.”

My throat tightens. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“Sorry.”

“Also stop apologizing.”

His lips twitch. “You are giving me conflicting instructions.”

“Figure it out. You’re supposed to be smart.”

Beyond us, the front doors slam open. Officers’ boots clatter on the hardwood; voices echo down the hall. Camille turns reflexively. I grab his shirt. He looks back.

“You’re not leaving me again.”

His gaze softens. “No.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

The weight of that word presses between us—promises haven’t fared well in this family.

I swallow. “Okay.”

He rests his forehead against mine. Behind us, Henri Voclain slumps dead in an armchair. Ahead of us, police flood the house, their shouts filling the air.

Camille could leave.

I could leave.

Neither of us does.

26

Ryan

Six Months Later