Page 93 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Except.

Except there is a faint discoloration in the rear corner, a patch of damp stone that looks darker than the rest. I approach on hands and knees, shining the beam low. The stones here are uneven, two of them sunken as if the mortar has caved beneath.

I press at the edges. The first one doesn’t budge, but the second wobbles just enough to suggest something underneath. I hook my fingers into the gap and pull. The stone grates up, heavy and wet, sending a trickle of black liquid down my wrist.

My stomach turns, but I keep pulling until the slab clears the hole. Beneath it is a shallow cavity, maybe the size of a shoebox, lined in black plastic sheeting that looks too modern for the rest of the construction.

My mind goes blank for a second. I blink, then reach in. My fingers close on a rectangle—some kind of notebook, wrapped in double layers of Ziploc. I lift it out, set it on the stone ledge, then reach back in.

A battered envelope comes next, followed by a slim plastic case like the kind you’d store old photographs in. The envelope is sealed, the paper discolored and brittle.

I stare at the trio of items for a long moment, my heart pounding so hard my ears ache.

For several seconds, I don’t touch anything.

I just kneel there in the dust with my phone clenched in one hand, staring at the three objects arranged on the stone ledge as if one of them might suddenly explain itself.

The notebook is the most obvious place to start. It is thicker than I first realized, bound in faded green cloth beneath its protective plastic, the corners softened from use. Something has been written across the front in black ink, but the plastic is cloudy enough that I can’t make out more than the shape of handwriting.

The slim plastic case is equally tempting. I can see pale rectangles stacked inside—photographs, probably, maybe documents folded down to fit.

But it’s the envelope that bothers me. I don’t know why. It is the least impressive of the three—an old cream-colored thing, yellow at the edges, the paper faintly mottled with age. There is no name on the front, no address, nothing to indicate who it was intended for.

Except when I pick it up, something shifts inside.

I freeze.

That is not paper.

I tilt the envelope carefully. Something small and hard slides from one end to the other with a muted scrape.

“Oh, what the fuck?” My voice sounds strangely loud inside the narrow space.

I turn the envelope over.

The flap has been sealed with what looks like ordinary adhesive, though age has dried it until the edges are beginning to lift. For a second, I consider preserving it exactly as it is because Camille has apparently infected me with some respect for evidence handling, but then I remember I already smashed through a wall with a hammer and crawled into a hidden compartment without telling anyone.

The chain of custody is fucked.

I slide one fingernail carefully beneath the loosened corner. The paper resists, then gives with a brittle whisper. I stop breathing as I peel the flap back. Inside is a folded sheet of paper and something black. I tip the envelope and watch as a tiny rectangular object drops into my palm.

“A USB?”

It’s an old flash drive, the kind I remember teachers using when I was a kid, thick compared to the newer ones. The metal connector is hidden beneath a removable cap that looks like it has been taken off and replaced a thousand times.

No label, no markings at all.

I stare at it.

My grandfather sealed a USB drive inside a wall.

My grandfather, who fled France in 2003 after three researchers disappeared from the private estate owned by his murderer boyfriend.

A USB drive hidden with a notebook and photographs.

My skin goes cold despite the stale heat trapped beneath my shirt. “Okay.” I swallow thickly, then cough at the dryness in my throat. Stupid dust.

I set the drive carefully on top of the notebook, then unfold the paper.