16. Ryan #3
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.
What is stored here is not everything. It could never be everything. Some records were destroyed before I could take them. Others existed only in Henri’s possession. But I copied what I could when I understood that people were beginning to disappear and that silence would not protect anyone.
I stop. My fingers have started trembling.
I will not pretend innocence where I do not deserve it.
I read that sentence again.
The walls feel closer.
Not claustrophobic exactly, but heavier, as though the entire cottage has shifted above me.
I take a shaking breath, then continue.
The drive contains copies of laboratory records, financial documents, correspondence, import and transfer records, and photographs. Some are incomplete. Some may be impossible to understand without context. The notebook may help provide that context.
Do not assume that every person whose name appears in these documents was willingly involved.
Henri was exceptionally skilled at making complicity gradual.
A favor became an obligation. An obligation became silence.
Silence eventually became guilt. By the time many of us understood what we had become part of, leaving was no longer simple.
I stayed far longer than I should have. I loved Henri, and love can make cowardice resemble loyalty if one wishes badly enough to believe it. I spent years telling myself that what I did not personally witness could not be my responsibility. I was wrong.
When I finally understood how far he was willing to go, I began making copies. I believed at first that I might use them to force him to stop. Later I understood there was no stopping him. There was only surviving him long enough to make certain the truth did not disappear with us.
My throat suddenly aches, thinking of my grandfather, a terrified man sitting somewhere in this cottage, probably writing this alone, knowing enough to be afraid but apparently not brave enough—or safe enough—to simply walk into a police station and dump everything on a desk.
If Henri is still alive when this is found, do not confront him. Do not contact anyone who claims to represent him. Do not assume that age has made him harmless.
I do not know who can be trusted. I once believed the police could help. After Inspector Fournier died, I stopped believing that safety could be guaranteed simply by choosing the correct authority. Perhaps I was paranoid. Perhaps I had reason to be. I leave that judgment to whoever reads this.
My stomach drops. “Jesus.”
Camille had told me Fournier’s death was officially accidental, but Alberte obviously did not believe that. Or at least suspected otherwise strongly enough to put it in a secret letter.
I read faster, the world around me dropping away.
If possible, make copies before giving anything to authorities. Do not allow the only version of these records to enter someone else’s possession. Information is safest when no single person has the power to destroy it.
There are names in the files that deserve to be investigated and names that deserve mercy. I cannot decide which is which from the grave. I can only provide what I was able to preserve.
I am sorry. None of this should have become yours. I told myself for years that keeping the cottage and keeping these records hidden here prevented the past from following anyone else. Perhaps that was another lie I used to make myself feel better.
I hope you are reading this because you chose to look, not because Henri found you first.
My thumb stops moving, and I read that final sentence again.
Then once more.
A cold sensation travels slowly down my spine.
Not because Henri found you first.
I glance toward the rough opening behind me as though I expect a face to appear there.
Nothing.
Only daylight spilling through the hole in a bright, dusty rectangle. Still, suddenly being alone feels significantly less clever than it did fifteen minutes ago.
I look back at the translation.
There is more.
A final paragraph, shorter than the others.
The drive is encrypted. The password is not written here. If the person finding this knew me well enough, I hope they will understand where to look. If not, the answer is somewhere among what I left behind.
Do not trust Henri.
And do not trust anyone simply because they tell you they hated him.
—Alberte Legrand
Henri, if it is you who is reading this:
May we find each other in another life.
I’m unsure how long my eyes remain fixed on that very last line. What does it mean? Did he still love Henri, even after everything?
I take a screenshot of the translation. I photograph the original French letter from several angles, making sure every line is legible. Only after I have copies do I fold the page carefully along its original creases.
My hands feel strangely disconnected from the rest of my body as I tuck the letter back into the envelope. I pocket the USB, then stare at the notebook.
The notebook may help provide context.
My fingers hover over it.
Then my phone buzzes, and I nearly launch it into the wall.
“Fuck!”
My heart slams violently against my ribs as the screen lights up with an incoming message from Camille.
I’m certain he knows what I’m doing, but then I see the text.
Camille: How are you?
That’s it.
Another message arrives before I respond.
Camille: We have a brief intermission. Have you eaten anything since breakfast?
I close my eyes, feeling flooded with relief. Well, relief and an inkling of guilt. After all, I made him promise not to lie to me again just three days ago.
Me: I’m fine. Not hungry yet. How’s the presentation?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Then appear again.
Camille: Less entertaining than you.
My chest does that stupid warm expanding thing. I hate it.
Camille: I should be finished near two, as expected. I thought we could have lunch afterward.
I look at my surroundings.
Me: Lunch sounds good :)
I almost tell him. “I found it.”
Just three words and Camille would leave whatever he is doing. He’d come straight here. He’d know what to do. And if I’m honest, there is a huge part of me that wants exactly that.
I want to hear his footsteps coming through the cottage. I want to show him the letter and watch his face while he reads it. I want him to explain what the fuck I’m supposed to do with a potentially encrypted USB containing evidence of crimes.
I want him to take over for five minutes so I can stop being the only person in this dark little musty hole carrying the weight of it.
My thumb moves toward the keyboard, but Alberte’s warning stops me.
Do not trust anyone simply because they tell you they hated him.
And another memory follows. Camille standing in the cottage yesterday, silent for too long, redirecting me, taking the hammer away, fucking me against the exterior wall precisely when I started asking whether we should open it.
My stomach turns. Maybe it was nothing.
It was probably nothing.
But if I tell him now, I can never untell him.
And now I understand exactly why someone might decide that withholding information isn’t technically the same as lying.
The realization tastes bitter.
Camille: Très bien. See you soon, petit chaton.
I stare at petit chaton until my vision blurs slightly.
“Fuck.” The word echoes softly through the hidden space.
I set an alarm for ten minutes till two, then put my phone on silent before slowly pulling the notebook from its plastic wrapping.
I settle back against the cold stone wall and whisper, “Okay, Grandpa.” My fingers slip beneath the cover. “Let’s see what else you were too afraid to say.”