Page 95 of Where the Snakes Sleep

What is stored here is not everything. It could never be everything. Some records were destroyed before I could take them. Others existed only in Henri’s possession. But I copied what I could when I understood that people were beginning to disappear and that silence would not protect anyone.

I stop. My fingers have started trembling.

I will not pretend innocence where I do not deserve it.

I read that sentence again.

The walls feel closer.

Not claustrophobic exactly, but heavier, as though the entire cottage has shifted above me.

I take a shaking breath, then continue.

The drive contains copies of laboratory records, financial documents, correspondence, import and transfer records, and photographs. Some are incomplete. Some may be impossible to understand without context. The notebook may help provide that context.

Do not assume that every person whose name appears in these documents was willingly involved. Henri was exceptionally skilled at making complicity gradual. A favor became an obligation. An obligation became silence. Silence eventually became guilt. By the time many of us understood what we had become part of, leaving was no longer simple.

I stayed far longer than I should have. I loved Henri, and love can make cowardice resemble loyalty if one wishes badly enough to believe it. I spent years telling myself that what I did not personally witness could not be my responsibility. I was wrong.

When I finally understood how far he was willing to go, I began making copies. I believed at first that I might use them to force him to stop. Later I understood there was no stopping him. There was only surviving him long enough to make certain the truth did not disappear with us.

My throat suddenly aches, thinking of my grandfather, a terrified man sitting somewhere in this cottage, probably writing this alone, knowing enough to be afraid but apparently not brave enough—or safe enough—to simply walk into a police station and dump everything on a desk.

If Henri is still alive when this is found, do not confront him. Do not contact anyone who claims to represent him. Do not assume that age has made him harmless.

I do not know who can be trusted. I once believed the police could help. After Inspector Fournier died, I stopped believing that safety could be guaranteed simply by choosing the correct authority. Perhaps I was paranoid. Perhaps I had reason to be. I leave that judgment to whoever reads this.

My stomach drops. “Jesus.”

Camille had told me Fournier’s death was officially accidental, but Alberte obviously did not believe that. Or at least suspected otherwise strongly enough to put it in a secret letter.

I read faster, the world around me dropping away.

If possible, make copies before giving anything to authorities. Do not allow the only version of these records to enter someone else’s possession. Information is safest when no single person has the power to destroy it.

There are names in the files that deserve to be investigated and names that deserve mercy. I cannot decide which is which from the grave. I can only provide what I was able to preserve.

I am sorry. None of this should have become yours. I told myself for years that keeping the cottage and keeping these records hidden here prevented the past from following anyone else. Perhaps that was another lie I used to make myself feel better.

I hope you are reading this because you chose to look, not because Henri found you first.

My thumb stops moving, and I read that final sentence again.

Then once more.

A cold sensation travels slowly down my spine.

Not because Henri found you first.

I glance toward the rough opening behind me as though I expect a face to appear there.

Nothing.

Only daylight spilling through the hole in a bright, dusty rectangle. Still, suddenly being alone feels significantly less clever than it did fifteen minutes ago.

I look back at the translation.

There is more.