15. Camille
Camille
I search his face for defiance or bravado, a sign that he might be joking, but what I find is only wariness—an aversion to being caged. His shoulders hunch, chin ducking toward his chest, and I realize I have already lost him for this moment.
I exhale through my nose and lean back in my chair, deliberately increasing the distance between us, which Ryan immediately notices. His eyes flick toward mine with a question in them.
“I phrased that badly,” I tell him, folding my hands loosely over my stomach, resisting the impulse to reach for him. “What I meant is that I would feel considerably better if you stayed here until we understand who has been watching the cottage and why.”
“That sounds almost exactly the same,” he points out.
“The distinction is that I am asking. If you decide to return to the cottage, I will not stop you. I will most definitely argue with you, because I think it is an unnecessary risk, and I reserve my right to tell you that your decision-making is appalling, but I won’t prevent you from leaving.”
He stays quiet, so I add, “You would remain a guest. Your cottage remains yours. Your things remain there unless you decide to bring them here. You can come and go whenever you like. There will be no expectation that you tell me where you are every moment of the day.”
His eyes seem to lose some of their apprehension upon hearing that.
“If you wish to sleep in the guest room, you sleep in the guest room. If you want the door locked, lock it. If you decide tomorrow morning that staying here was a terrible idea and you would rather take your chances with the suspicious car than listen to me speak for another hour, I will think you have lost your mind, but I will still let you go.”
Ryan’s mouth twitches despite himself. “That last one was almost sweet.”
“It wasn’t intended to be, but I won’t argue it,” I say, finally letting some of the tension out of my shoulders at the reappearance of his snarky humor.
Ryan chuckles lightly, then turns back to the monitor, wrapping both hands around his coffee mug, although whatever warmth it contained has long since dissipated.
“What about the cottage?” he asks.
“What about it?”
“I’m not abandoning it.”
“I did not ask you to.”
“I need to keep working on it.”
“Okay. We can return during the day,” I reply. “Together, preferably.”
He doesn’t seem to appreciate that. “Preferably?”
I sigh. “Ryan… I just want you to be safe. But if you must go over alone, I won’t stop you.”
“That’s better. Alright, as long as it’s only for a few nights,” he acquiesces, filling me with relief. He then takes another sip of his cold coffee, grimaces, and puts it back down. “But I’ll only stay if you explain to me what’s really going on. Now.”
I made a promise. I have already violated its spirit simply by withholding the oldest and most important pieces. Still, I cannot bring myself to confess everything.
However, I can stop treating him like a child wandering through a dark room while I decide which lights to switch on.
“Okay.”
I turn away before my guilt can become visible to him and reach for the thick file I keep two shelves above my desk, the one bearing Henri’s name.
I set the folder down between us as Ryan stares at it as though something might climb out.
“Jesus Christ, Camille. How much information is in there?”
“Not enough.”
I open the file. The first photograph is professional, a group shot taken decades ago at a university function.
Henri is younger, perhaps in his mid-thirties, dressed in a dark suit, his expression composed without looking too stern.
He is handsome in the way men with absolute confidence often are—not because there is anything extraordinary about his face, but because he wears it as though he has never once wondered about his worth. He stands with two other academics.
Ryan gingerly picks up the photograph. “Which one is he?” I point to Henri in the center. “That’s him? He looks more normal than I thought he would.”
I chuckle. “What were you expecting?”
He shrugs, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Honestly, no idea. Just more eccentric or something? But whatever. Tell me about him.”
“He was highly respected for many years,” I explain. “Medicine first, then toxicology and pharmacological research involving animal venoms. His work attracted attention because there was—and remains—legitimate potential in compounds derived from venom for medical applications.”
“So like medicine made from snake venom?”
“In very simplified terms.”
I turn another page.
A photograph of Le Mas from the late 1980s occupies most of it. The main house sits low against the landscape, broad and pale beneath the southern sun, with several detached structures visible beyond it.
Ryan leans closer. “That’s Le Mas? It’s huge.”
“It became larger over time.”
“My grandfather lived there?”
I nod. “For years.”
“With Henri,” Ryan adds softly.
“Yes.”
“And this is where everything happened.”
“Yes.”
I flip forward through copies of import records, archived articles, and old correspondence. All material that has accumulated over decades.
“The first serious allegations concerned animals.”
Ryan’s attention snaps back to me. “What kind of allegations?”
“That some specimens kept at Le Mas may not have entered France through legal channels. There were inconsistencies involving permits and provenance records. Protected species appeared in collections without documentation adequate to explain where they had come from or how they had been acquired.”
“So… trafficking?” Ryan asks, frowning.
“Allegedly, yes. There is evidence that people associated with Le Mas were involved in illegal acquisitions. Establishing exactly which decisions originated with Henri is more difficult.”
“But he owned the place,” Ryan says.
“Yes.” I move to another section. “There were also questions about payments made through intermediaries. Money moving through accounts connected to people who supplied specimens, transportation, private collectors. Some of those transactions appeared deliberately difficult to trace.”
Ryan whistles softly. “Rich-person crime.”
“There were discrepancies with the venom samples as well,” I add. “Samples that appear to have left Le Mas without corresponding research records. Transfers that were never properly documented. Allegations that material intended for legitimate research was sold privately.”
Ryan’s brows furrow. “Wait, he sold venom?”
“There’s no definitive evidence to prove he did. At least, not now.”
“Not now…?” Ryan pauses. “Is that what you think those people were looking for? Evidence? They think Alberte hid something in the cottage? Why?”
“ I’ll explain in a moment. Alberte was not a peripheral employee. By the later years, he had been by Henri’s side for decades. He understood the research, the estate, many of the people involved. He had access.”
“To what?”
“Records. Laboratories. Correspondence. Financial information, potentially. He was trusted.”
“And sleeping with the boss…” Ryan says quietly.
“Yes, it’s more than likely.”
“So when allegations started…”
“His name appeared alongside Henri’s.”
Ryan looks down at his hands. “Did they accuse him of trafficking too?”
“Informally, yes. There were people who believed Alberte helped arrange acquisitions—or at minimum knew where the animals were coming from.”
“Did he?”
I sigh. “I don’t know.”
He studies me, searching for some glimmer of evasion. “Really?”
“Really.”
Not finding it, he asks, “What else?”
I leaf through the documents and stop at an article dated 2003. Its edges are worn, the ink faded. “Three people connected to Le Mas disappeared over several weeks.”
Ryan’s eyes widen. “Three?”
I nod. “Not simultaneously, but close enough that investigators treated them as linked.”
“Who were they?” His voice is quiet.
My mouth suddenly feels dry. I glance at the printed names on the clipping. One sits mere inches from Ryan’s hand.
Nadia Moreau.
I could tell him.
I should.
All I would have to do is move my finger.
Her.
My mother.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Researchers associated with projects at the estate.”
The omission feels physically foul.
Ryan looks back up. “Were they ever found?”
“No.”
“Bodies?”
“No.”
“Anything?”
“Very little.”
He stares, horror dawning behind his eyes. “So people thought Henri killed them.”
“Some did.”
“And Alberte?”
“Some suspected him too.”
Ryan closes his eyes briefly, as if to block the world out. “Fuck.”
“The investigation focused on Le Mas because of the connection, but with no bodies, no crime scene, suspicion just built on rumor.”
“What happened to my grandfather?”
“He was questioned.”
“What did he say?”
“He denied knowing anything.”
Ryan’s gaze flips between the files and the distant fields visible through the study windows. “Do you believe him?”
That question lands like a stone. I pause. “I believe Alberte knew more than he admitted.”
Ryan leans back, processing. “But you don’t think he killed them?”
“No. His behavior afterward makes more sense to me if he was frightened of Henri than if he was protecting him.”
“Explain.”
“During the investigation, Alberte became increasingly difficult to reach. People who knew him described him as agitated. Withdrawn. He stopped appearing at places he had attended routinely for years.”
“Then he ran.”
“Yes.”
“To America.”
“Yes, within months.”
Ryan rubs his palms over his thighs. “That does make him look guilty, I guess.”
“It did.”
“Is that why everyone here hates him?”
“Partly.” I close the folder halfway, then reconsider and leave it open.
“He didn’t even attempt to clear his name; neither did he accuse Henri.
He did not cooperate with the people who wanted answers.
To many people here, that meant one of two things.
Either he was involved and fled consequences, or he knew what happened and chose himself over the missing. ”
Ryan winces. “That’s brutal.”
“Yes.” I roll the word around my tongue. “Fear makes people act shamefully when viewed from safety.”