Page 76 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Ryan lifts his head from my shoulder far enough to glare at me. “You’re very comforting first thing in the morning.”

He looks different immediately after waking. Softer in ways he would resent having described aloud, his hair a mess and his eyes still heavy with sleep, defenses not yet fully assembled. There is a faint crease along one cheek from where it rested against my shirt, and when he notices me looking at him, suspicion gradually replaces the last of his drowsiness.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“So are you.”

His face scrunches up in annoyance. “Because you were staring!”

I suppress a smile as Ryan pushes himself upright, taking the blanket with him until it pools around his hips. Cold morning air immediately finds the space where his body had been pressed against mine.

“I need caffeine,” Ryan mutters.

“I had gathered.”

“And food,” he adds.

“Also gathered.”

“And probably a shower.”

“You have so many needs,” I say, chuckling when that earns me a frigid glare.

I stand and stretch the stiffness out of my shoulders, my body protesting the position I spent most of the night in.

“Come,” I say. “I’ll make coffee.”

Ryan follows me into the kitchen wearing the blanket around his shoulders like a cloak.

The house is still cool from the night, but sunlight has begun pouring through the eastern windows, warming the floor in broad rectangles. Ryan settles onto one of the stools at the island while I start the coffee, then folds forward until his forehead rests on the countertop.

There is something dangerously domestic about the scene. It would be easy to imagine this happening again.

That is precisely why I should not.

I turn away before the thought can finish constructing an entire life from one morning.

My phone vibrates against the counter, and Ryan sits up instantly, eyes lasered in on the screen. The number displayed is local.

I answer in French.

The older officer who attended yesterday identifies himself, and within the first several sentences it becomes apparent that the update will disappoint Ryan.

There were no useful fingerprints recovered from the exterior door beyond Ryan’s and several incomplete impressions that could belong to contractors, previous visitors, or anyone else who had legitimate contact with the property. Nothing in the cottage appears to have been taken, at least according to Ryan’s initial inventory, and there were no witnesses nearby who reported anything unusual.

The damage to the lock is consistent with forced entry. That, at least, confirms Ryan did not imagine it.

I ask about the papers that Ryan said were rifled through.

The officer agrees that the circumstances suggest the intruder may have been searching rather than stealing, though he is careful not to attach motive to what remains conjecture.

Then he asks whether Ryan has remembered anything else since yesterday. I glance up, noting the reflection of my face in his eyes as he studies my every subtle expression and the handful of French phrases he knows, trying to piece together the full conversation. I press my lips together, then switch to English.

“Non,” I say, my voice low. “Nothing yet. But I forgot to mention yesterday that I have security cameras covering part of the road on my property. I haven’t checked the footage, but it’s possible we might find something relevant.”