Page 91 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Which brings us to this morning. Camille has a university presentation, so I have three hours, possibly more, to get shit done on my own.

The thought settles into place with a satisfying little click.

Camille looks up from his coffee. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

“That is unlikely.”

“I’m eating breakfast. I’m thinking about that.” I scoop another spoonful of yogurt into my mouth and point at it as evidence.

Camille studies me.

There are moments when I genuinely understand how a mouse must feel when a snake stops pretending not to notice it.

I swallow. “Don’t you have stuff to do?”

Camille drains the last of his coffee and sets the cup beside the sink. “I will be in my study. Please do not get into any unnecessary trouble while I’m busy. Please also do not interrupt unless something is urgent.”

“I would never.”

His expression becomes profoundly skeptical. “I mean it.”

“I heard you.”

He rubs two fingers between his eyebrows. “There is food in the refrigerator if you are hungry before I finish.”

Camille stops beside my stool, his hand settling briefly against the back of my neck, thumb brushing below my hairline. The touch is so casual now that my body responds before my brain has time to protest, shoulders loosening, head tipping almost imperceptibly into his palm.

Camille bends and presses a kiss to my temple. Nothing sexual, nothing demanding, just warm lips against skin and the quiet rasp of his stubble. “I will see you later.”

“I… Yeah,” I respond, my chest feeling light and bubbly. “Good luck with your presentation.”

He leaves, and eventually, I hear his study door close somewhere deeper in the house. I finish my breakfast, wash my dishes, then go upstairs to the guest room to change into shorts and an old T-shirt. I tie my hair back, put on sneakers, then sneak outside.

Technically, I’m not sneaking out, because Camille specifically told me I can come and go as I please. The fact that I wait until he’s trapped in some work obligation is completely coincidental, just like how I sprint like my life depends on it to the cottage in the hope that he’ll be too focused on his computer to notice me from the window.

I let out a ragged exhale upon reaching the steps of the cottage, praying that my phone doesn’t buzz in my pocket as I unlock the new lock on the front door and quickly step inside. I fall back against the door as it shuts, and wait. When my phone stays silent, telling me that Camille must’ve missed my frantic run across our yards, I finally release some of my tension.

I lock the door behind me, then head to the kitchen. The room still bears evidence of yesterday’s search. One cabinet has not been pushed fully back against the wall. Pencil marks remain on a small strip of painter’s tape near the baseboard where Camille recorded measurements. The table has been shifted several inches from its usual position, and the pantry contents are still slightly disorganized because I got bored halfway through putting everything back.

I stand in the center of the kitchen, staring at the wall that’s more than likely hiding something behind it.

Yesterday, Camille wouldn’t let me open it. Not because he thinks there is nothing there. If anything, his increasingly bizarre behavior convinced me of the opposite. His objection was “structural safety.”

Which, fine.

I understand the concept of consequences. But there is a huge difference between knocking down an entire load-bearing wall and making one small exploratory hole.

A tiny hole.

Barely a hole.

More of an aggressive peephole.

The section we identified yesterday occupies maybe three feet between the pantry and a vertical run of exposed stone. According to Camille’s measurements, whatever inaccessible space exists should begin behind here and continue several meters along the rear wall.

I tap the plaster with my knuckles—solid.