15. Camille #3
After several seconds, he apparently decides that today contains enough disturbing revelations without interrogating why his neighbor has archival measurements of his house.
He points at the oldest plan. “What am I looking at?”
“The cottage before several renovations.”
“Okay.” He gestures at another sheet. “And this?”
“A measurement taken decades later.”
Ryan studies both, eyes moving between them. “They look the same.”
“They aren’t.” I tap a segment of the exterior wall. “Notice the footprint here.” Then another spot. “Compare with the measured rooms inside.”
His eyes widen as he realizes. “They’re different. A lot different.”
“Hold on.” I pull the photograph from 2002 forward. Alberte and Henri stand outside the cottage beneath summer sunlight, their shadows falling long across the pale stone. I have spent so many years studying the two men that their surroundings became almost invisible.
Until recently.
I point behind Alberte’s shoulder.
Ryan leans closer. “What?”
“There.”
“I don’t—”
“The wall.”
He takes the photograph from me and holds it close to his face. His eyebrows shoot up, and he notes, “There’s a window.” A narrow opening sits low in the stonework, half swallowed by climbing vines. Ryan’s eyes jump to the more recent exterior photograph. “It’s gone.”
I nod as he continues to flip between the two.
“You’ve seen my kitchen wall. Is that where this would be?”
“Approximately,” I answer.
His entire posture changes. “Camille.”
“Yes?”
“You think there’s a hidden room in my cottage.”
“I think there is inaccessible space that is not adequately accounted for in the current interior.”
“That is the most obnoxiously scientific way you could possibly say ‘hidden room.’”
He drops back into the chair, photograph still in hand, then looks down at it again. The amusement leaves him shortly after, and he murmurs, “So whoever broke in…”
“May have known,” I finish for him.
His breathing accelerates, panic surfacing. “What if they found it?”
“We have no evidence that they did.”
“What if there’s nothing there anymore?”
“It’s possible.”
“But what if they come back because they didn’t find it? Would they hurt me?”
“Ryan.”
“What if they think I know where it is?”
“Ryan.” His eyes finally snap to mine. I soften my voice. “It will be fine. We can go look this afternoon. We will inspect the cottage in daylight, photograph anything unusual, and involve the police rather than tearing down walls ourselves.”
He shoots me an offended look. “I wasn’t going to dismantle half the house.”
“You tried repairing a stone wall with no experience.”
“That worked.”
“It remains mostly collapsed.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “I will try not to fuck anything up.” He then asks, “Why don’t we go now instead of waiting for the afternoon?”
“Because there are still things to do,” I answer. “Like shower.”
He frowns. “Lame.”
“You wanted to shower twenty minutes ago,” I point out.
“I also wanted to fuck you twenty minutes ago,” he snaps back.
“Your priorities are remarkably unstable.”
That pulls a laugh from him.
“Alright,” he says after a moment, still sporting a small grin. “I’ll shower, we’ll get my stuff, look at the wall, call somebody about the locks and cameras, and then…” He gestures vaguely between us. “I guess I’ll stay here.”
“For a few nights.”
“For a few nights,” he repeats sternly before narrowing his eyes. “Why do you look so pleased?”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“I am pleased that you are making a sensible choice,” I say. He scoffs loudly, pretending to be offended. “Now go. Shower.”
He rises, but pauses at the door. “Camille?” I look up. His expression has softened, vulnerability shining in his eyes. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“For actually telling me.”
The guilt that seizes me is immediate and perfectly deserved. “You asked.”
His fingers curl around the door frame. “You could’ve kept doing what you were doing yesterday. Giving me little pieces. But you didn’t.”
I say nothing.
Ryan mistakes my silence for discomfort and smiles faintly. “I know honesty isn’t your favorite.”
The words cut deeper than he intends. “I am learning.”
“Good,” he murmurs.
He disappears down the hallway; the soft click of the guest bathroom door follows a moment later, then the muted rush of water through pipes.
I stay where I am until I’m sure he can’t see me and then lower myself back into the chair. The file lies open, Nadia Moreau’s name staring up at me in bold type.
I could tell him. I could tell him about my mother, my father, and the years afterward.
Each confession would make the next easier until nothing would be left concealed between us.
I picture Ryan’s face.
He wouldn’t be angry at first, I don’t think. He would understand why I approached him, but then he would reconstruct every encounter with the new information exactly as he described doing with Paul.
The dinners, the flirting, the small talk—everything. He would ask what was genuine, and I would have to tell him the truth. Far more than I intended. Far sooner than I wanted.
I close the file over Nadia’s name.
Coward.