Page 187 of Where the Snakes Sleep

He pushes a stray lock from my sweaty forehead. “Tu veux du café?” he asks. Do you want coffee?

“Yes,” I snap, and immediately wince at my tone.

He arches an eyebrow. “Oui, s’il te plaît ?” he suggests.

“Oui, s’il te plaît.” I straighten my back, stick my tongue out at him, then get up to go grab coffee. Because no, that wasn’t him asking me if I wanted coffee, more like telling me I look like I probably need coffee.

The kitchen still smells faintly of fresh wood and paint when I step inside, though it increasingly smells like me, too.

There is a pile of mail on the table, most of it junk.

One envelope sits on top because I have looked at it at least twelve times today, even though there is nothing new inside.

My residence permit paperwork.

Approved.

Official.

Real.

As I pick it up again, Camille appears in the doorway. “You are checking whether it changed?”

“No.”

“You have checked repeatedly.”

“I just like looking at it.”

I turn the envelope in my hands.

Six months ago, France was temporary.

I was going to come here, deal with my grandfather’s house, sell it, take the money, go back to America, and figure out what the hell came next.

Then Alberte turned out to have the wildest backstory.

Camille turned out to be a manipulative snake scientist with boundary issues.

Then he turned out to be a manipulative snake scientist with boundary issues who was trying very hard to become a better person.

Then I stabbed an old man with venom.

Plans evolve.

The police portion of that story is less funny.

The police interviewed me so often I dreamed in their questions. In the end, it was self-defense. Defense of another. No charges. Case closed.

But it started with:

Where was I standing?

Where was Henri?

When did I find the syringe?

Why did I leave the laboratory?