Page 63 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I let my shoulders drop, relief flooding out. “Can I go in?”

He nods.

As soon as I cross the threshold, I know something’s been tampered with. Not shredded or ransacked—nothing so obvious. Instead, the place seems… off.

The entry rug is askew, as I saw earlier, but other small differences are scattered throughout the first floor.

The drawer in the side table sits slightly open. A framed print in the sitting room hangs ever so slightly crooked. One sofa cushion has been moved.

My laptop remains on the kitchen table, untouched.

So does the old silver candlestick I looked up online last week and discovered is worth several hundred euros.

I point, my voice low. “They didn’t take that.”

The younger officer studies the candlestick. “Anything missing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Camille stands silent. Too silent. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze sliding over each detail with unsettling calm. I step toward the desk. The top drawer is ajar, revealing the handful of papers I found when I first arrived—property records, old utility bills, boring stuff.

The thing is, I know I left them in a tidy pile, but now it looks as if someone has rifled through them.

“Why?” I murmur to myself. Were they looking for banknotes or something?

Camille comes closer. “What is it?”

“These were moved. Nothing’s missing, though,” I reply, feeling confused and frankly off-kilter.

“You are certain?” Camille asks.

I nod.

The officers glance between us.

“I don’t think they were stealing,” I croak. “My laptop is sitting out. There’s silver in the other room. Nothing expensive is gone, but somebody was obviously in here, moving stuff around and…” My voice trails off, my mind filling with possibilities.

The older officer speaks to Camille in French. Camille replies quietly. I catch one name—Henri Voclain—spoken quickly.

“What did you say?” I demand. Both officers look at me. Camille’s eyes flick to mine, guarded. “You said Henri.”

Silence.

“Why did you say Henri?”

Before the officer can answer, Camille cuts in. “I told him your grandfather once worked for Henri Voclain.”

“Someone breaks in looking for something, and the first name out of your mouth is Henri?”

He holds my gaze. I can almost see him choosing which truth to offer. My skin chills.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Not here,” he says quietly, nodding at the officers.

“Right.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “We find out if whoever did this is coming back.”

Camille’s shoulders ease. “Exactly.”