21. Camille #3
“You can breathe,” Ryan says lightly.
I had not realized I had stopped. I inhale, then ask him, “What do you need?”
He enters and closes the door behind him. “I need to know something first.”
“Alright.”
“If I let you see what else was in the wall, are you going to lose your mind?”
The truthful answer would depend upon what is inside.
“I will attempt not to. But do you mean to tell me there was more than the journal?” I say, my voice tight in the dim light of the study.
Ryan studies me in the soft glow of the desk lamp. “Are you going to take anything?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Copy anything?”
“Not unless you permit it.”
“Photograph anything?”
“No.”
“Touch anything?”
I hesitate, the question echoing in the hushed room. The air smells faintly of old paper and sandalwood. “If you allow me,” I whisper. His mouth presses into a thin line, and I hasten to add, “If you prefer that I only look, I will only look.”
He rises and moves across the low-pile rug to the chair by the tall, narrow window. Rain taps against the glass in uneven rhythms. I remain at my desk, back ramrod-straight.
He notices. His voice softens just enough. “You can come over here.”
His permission warms me more than it should. I stand, muscles stiff with anticipation. I step across the floorboards as though approaching a wary fox—each footfall measured, cautious. I hate the analogy. It reminds me of the suspicion that’s chased us to this moment.
I settle into the armchair opposite him. The leather is cool beneath me. Ryan opens his battered canvas bag on the side table. My pulse hammers in my ears.
The journal is taken out first, and after that, I’m not sure what to expect.
Oh, it’s a plastic case. It looks as if there may be photos inside.
Finally, he plunges his hand into the inner zipper pocket and draws out a small black USB drive. He places it beside the case, and for a long moment I cannot speak.
A lifetime of questions converge in front of me, all compressed into three objects on this table.
My eyes burn with the weight of it. I look away, biting my lip until I taste blood.
He clears his throat. “Camille?”
“I’m fine,” I force out.
He watches me, concern flickering in his eyes. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”
“I may.”
His expression softens. “There’s a letter too. I just put it in the journal so I didn’t lose it. It came in an envelope with the USB.”
“A letter from Alberte?”
He nods. “Yes. I translated it.”
My hands curl into fists on the armrests. “What did it say?”
He pauses, gathering words. “He said the USB contains laboratory records, financial documents, correspondence, import and transfer logs, photographs. Some files are incomplete, and the journal will provide context.” My throat constricts.
“He also said not everyone named in the records was willingly involved. Oh, and the drive is encrypted.”
I jerk back, focus returning. “Did he include a password?”
“Not in the letter. He said the answer is hidden somewhere among what he left.” My eyes flick to the plastic case, curiosity and fear warring inside me. He follows my gaze. “I haven’t opened that yet.”
Surprise must show on my face. “You didn’t?”
“I couldn’t handle anything else that day.”
I nod, understanding the tremor in his voice. “That makes sense.”
“I’ve been thinking about what to do. I’ve sorta avoided looking at any of it the past few days. The journal was… a lot. But I had a thought today… What if Henri somehow gets his hands on this stuff? I want your help. I think we should make copies.”
My pulse leaps. “Multiple?”
He inclines his head. “Yes, I think that’d be best.”
“That would be wise,” I agree.
“Maybe we send them to a journalist or a lawyer. Oh, we should send one of them to my grandfather’s lawyer. I think she only handled the estate stuff, but I mean a lawyer is a lawyer, right? And if Alberte trusted her, then she’s probably okay.”
“I think that would be great. What about the police, though?”
He nods and exhales, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders. “But I decide when.”
“Okay.”
He looks up. The space between us grows weighty, charged.
“You can look at it.” My heart stutters.
“With me,” he adds quickly. “Honestly, I think I’ve been waiting to look at the case and USB because I’m a little scared about what will be in there.
I would like to look at it with you. Oh, and um, you should read the journal, too; I think it’ll be important. ”
I stare at him. “You want to look at it right now?”
His eyes dart away. “If you’re ready,” he says. “If not, we can wait. You can read the journal first if you want.”
I think of it sitting closed on the table, the green cover already imprinted on my brain. I have read enough narratives in my life to know that sometimes the more you wait, the harder it gets to open the next page.
Better to just do it.
I reach for the case first. It’s only slightly heavier than I expect, just enough to be disappointing if you’re hoping for something momentous. Which I am, in a way.
I pop the plastic latch and raise the lid.