12. Ryan #3
“What if nothing’s missing?”
“That does not mean no crime occurred.”
I stare at him. Something about his certainty steadies me. “Okay.”
He speaks into the phone in rapid-fire French—I catch only the address and my surname—and when he hangs up, he doesn’t slip the phone away. He positions himself between me and the cottage door, broad chest a shadowy barrier.
“You don’t need to shield me,” I mutter.
“I am not.”
“You literally moved in front of me.”
“Coincidence.”
“Liar.”
His mouth tightens. The tension hums between us, and for some twisted reason I feel safer.
We wait. The sky dims further. My adrenaline quiets, replaced by a flush of embarrassment. Maybe I forgot to lock the door. Maybe the rug shifted when I brushed past it. No. I know better.
My eyes wander over Camille’s bare feet against the damp grass, his pants dusted with pollen. I’m wearing shorts that need washing, a T-shirt stained with berry juice, groceries wilting on the porch behind me.
“This is awkward,” I murmur.
He regards me evenly. “How?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is a useful explanation.”
“I was kind of planning on avoiding you.”
His eyebrow arches. Fantastic. Why did I say that?
“Were you?”
“Forget it.”
“Why?”
“No reason.”
“Ryan.”
“Do not ‘Ryan’ me right now.”
His attention sharpens, bright and heavy. “You left suddenly last night.”
My shoulders curl in. “Yeah.”
“Were you alright after returning home?”
“I—” I don’t know. “Yeah. I ate the peach slices too. Thank you for that.”
His lips quirk—almost a smile. “De rien.” You’re welcome.
A car pulls into the drive before I have the chance to say anything incriminating.
Two gendarmes in dark wool coats stroll in—one older and one younger.
Luckily, both understand enough English that they don’t have to sit through an unbearable show of me sifting through my French vocabulary to describe the situation.
After I finish my story, they step into the cottage; Camille remains with me, still a shield.
After several quiet minutes, the younger officer returns. “No person.” His voice is soft.
I let my shoulders drop, relief flooding out. “Can I go in?”
He nods.
As soon as I cross the threshold, I know something’s been tampered with. Not shredded or ransacked—nothing so obvious. Instead, the place seems… off.
The entry rug is askew, as I saw earlier, but other small differences are scattered throughout the first floor.
The drawer in the side table sits slightly open. A framed print in the sitting room hangs ever so slightly crooked. One sofa cushion has been moved.
My laptop remains on the kitchen table, untouched.
So does the old silver candlestick I looked up online last week and discovered is worth several hundred euros.
I point, my voice low. “They didn’t take that.”
The younger officer studies the candlestick. “Anything missing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Camille stands silent. Too silent. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze sliding over each detail with unsettling calm. I step toward the desk. The top drawer is ajar, revealing the handful of papers I found when I first arrived—property records, old utility bills, boring stuff.
The thing is, I know I left them in a tidy pile, but now it looks as if someone has rifled through them.
“Why?” I murmur to myself. Were they looking for banknotes or something?
Camille comes closer. “What is it?”
“These were moved. Nothing’s missing, though,” I reply, feeling confused and frankly off-kilter.
“You are certain?” Camille asks.
I nod.
The officers glance between us.
“I don’t think they were stealing,” I croak. “My laptop is sitting out. There’s silver in the other room. Nothing expensive is gone, but somebody was obviously in here, moving stuff around and…” My voice trails off, my mind filling with possibilities.
The older officer speaks to Camille in French. Camille replies quietly. I catch one name—Henri Voclain—spoken quickly.
“What did you say?” I demand. Both officers look at me. Camille’s eyes flick to mine, guarded. “You said Henri.”
Silence.
“Why did you say Henri?”
Before the officer can answer, Camille cuts in. “I told him your grandfather once worked for Henri Voclain.”
“Someone breaks in looking for something, and the first name out of your mouth is Henri?”
He holds my gaze. I can almost see him choosing which truth to offer. My skin chills.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Not here,” he says quietly, nodding at the officers.
“Right.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “We find out if whoever did this is coming back.”
Camille’s shoulders ease. “Exactly.”
Meanwhile, I feel like I’m going to vomit. Every window, every shadowed corner suddenly feels exposed. I wrap my arms around myself.
Camille steps closer, voice gentler. “You are not staying here alone tonight.”
A reflexive protest leaps to my lips. “I can—” Then I stop. I realize I don’t want to. The shame of admitting it flares hotter than my fear. I don’t want to be alone in this cottage tonight. I turn away before he can read the relief stalking across my face. “Fine,” I mutter. “One night.”