Page 94 of Where the Snakes Sleep

It crackles as I open it, and the handwriting takes up the entire page, compact and slanted, written in dark ink that has bled slightly into the fibers over time.

It’s in fucking French.

I stare at the first line.

Si vous lisez ceci, c’est que…

I know vous.

I know lisez.

I think? Maybe. Actually, no, I don’t.

I squint harder, as if insulting the handwriting with my eyes will force fluency into my brain.

“Si vous… li… sez…”

I recognize ceci. Possibly?

The next line contains Henri’s name. That I recognize immediately.

Henri Voclain ne doit jamais…

“Ne doit jamais…”

Never?

Something never.

Great.

Excellent.

I have successfully translated three words out of an entire fucking page.

There are several other names scattered through the text, some familiar from Camille’s explanation yesterday, others meaningless to me. Le Mas appears more than once. So does preuves.

I stare at that one. “Proof?”

I’m pretty sure preuve means proof. Maybe.

I turn the page over, only to find more of my grandfather’s script. Fuck. There is no universe where I am going to sit inside a secret room for two hours manually typing this into a translation app, one tortured sentence at a time.

Then I remember my phone can translate images.

“Thank fucking God for technology.”

I take several photographs of the page, adjusting the flashlight until the shadows from my hands stop falling across the writing. It comes back with several chunks of nonsense because apparently Grandpa’s handwriting is difficult even for artificial intelligence.

I retake it, flatter against the stone. I watch the little loading circle spin as the app processes for several seconds.

Then English replaces the French, and I start to read.

To whoever finds this,

If you are reading these words, then I was either unable or too afraid to do what should have been done many years ago. For that, I am sorry.

The objects hidden here concern Henri Voclain and the work conducted at Le Mas Voclain. They also concern me. I will not pretend innocence where I do not deserve it. I knew more than I admitted. I allowed things I should have questioned because I loved him, because I trusted him, and later because I feared what would happen if I turned against him.