Page 68 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“Yes.”

The single word hits me like a blow. I stare at him, my heart pounding. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He exhales, then turns around, a warm, delicious-smelling, full dish in his hands. “I hinted toward it.” He puts the dish on the island and pushes it to me.

“You mean you lied,” I say, even though I know it’s a little pathetic, a little childish, how my voice shakes.

“I did not lie,” Camille replies, setting down his own bowl, but he’s turned away from me, his face a dark profile against the dusk-lit wall. “I just did not tell you everything.”

I eat in silence for a few moments. The food is better than I want it to be, rich and fragrant and hot enough to sting the roof of my mouth. I want to be angry, but mostly I just want to keep eating. Some of the tension in my body melts away with each bite, like I’m being slowly sedated by calories and salt.

“So you think the break-in has something to do with their relationship?”

“I think,” Camille says, and now he’s really looking at me, his eyes heavy with something that might almost be apology, “that people will go to extraordinary lengths to protect the stories they want told. Or to destroy the ones they do not.”

“You’re still not telling me everything,” I say, and it’s not a question. “I get…” I take a breath, steeling myself. “I get that we’re just fuck buddies. But I… I don’t know. I thought we’d gotten to a point where… where you wouldn’t hide these kinds of things from me. Do you really not trust me?”

Camille’s eyes flicker; it’s a tell I’m only now learning to read. He doesn’t look down, doesn’t fidget. He only blinks a fraction slower than usual and says, “It is not about trust.”

“That’s not an answer.” The food in my mouth suddenly tastes like paper. “It sounds like you’re protecting someone, but I don’t know who.”

He puts down his spoon with precise care. “If I am protecting anyone, it is you.”

I shake my head. “That’s not how it feels.”

He breathes out, slow and controlled. “I do not want you involved in something dangerous.”

“Why is it dangerous, Camille?” I ask, frustrated. “It has to be something more than them being gay.”

Silence. He stares at the wall for so long I think he’s decided not to answer at all. But then he says, so quietly I almost miss it, “I do not wish you to become a target. Like Alberte.”

The name lands between us like a dropped glass. I push back from the island and stand, bracing my hands on the cold edge of the counter.

“So what am I supposed to do? Just… wait around and hope no one tries to break in again?”

“I will not allow anyone to harm you.”

I bark out a laugh, sharp and ugly. “You wouldn’t have to fucking protect me if you’d just tell me what the danger is! I can protect myself, Camille, but I don’t know how, because for some stupid reason, you think you’re being fucking chivalrous by keeping me in the dark.”

He stands too fast, and the stool skids an inch. “Ryan.”

“What?”

He lowers his voice. “I am sorry.”

I want to continue being angry, to yell at him and argue the truth out of him, but instead I just feel cold.

“I’m tired. Where’s the guest room?”

He gestures down the hall. “Upstairs, at the end, on the left.”

I grab my bag and head for the stairs without looking back. The memory of his face, so perfectly composed, follows me up. I slam the door behind me, but it does nothing to shut out the ominous feeling in my chest.

* * *

The guest room is the nicest I have ever been in. The bed is comically enormous, heaped in duvets so soft they practically swallow you whole. There’s an antique writing desk in the corner and a window overlooking the rolling countryside.

None of it helps.