Page 21 of Midnight at the Magnolia

“That’s... that’s thoughtful of you,” I manage, taking the bag from her. Our fingers brush, and electricity arcs between us. Professional training catalogs her reaction—pupils dilate, breath catches, pulse visible at her throat. All signs of attraction... or anxiety. But what my training doesn’t explain is why I can’t stop noticing how she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous, or the way her accent gets stronger when she’s trying to deflect.

Lauren’s voice again:“Sometimes fear and desire look exactly the same. That’s what makes them both so dangerous.”

“So,” she says, voice low and husky. “Another victim?”

The question triggers warning bells. Too casual, too probing.

“Watch for people who volunteer to enter crime scenes,”Lauren would say.“They’re either reporters, killers, or both.”

“I shouldn’t really talk about an open case, but...” I trail off, torn between training and temptation. “Dammit, Celeste. I wish I could tell you everything.”

Lauren’s disapproving sigh echoes in my memory:“Secrets shared are weapons given.”

She nods, disappointment and something else—relief?—flickering across her face. The tell is so quick I almost miss it. Almost. Thank you, Lauren, for those endless hours of interrogation training.

“It’s not just a case anymore,” I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “There’s something bigger going on. Something that goes all the way to the top.”

Lauren’s voice screams in my head:“Stop talking, you idiot. You’re giving away your hand.”

Celeste’s eyes widen, the green darkening to the color of moss-covered secrets. “The top? You mean...”

“I’ve said too much,” I cut her off, suddenly aware of how far I’ve stepped over the line. “You should go. It’s not safe for youhere. And I’m not just talking about the crime scene. My dance moves are lethal.”

She gives me a very un-lady like snort. One that I somehow find attractive along with her crooked smile. “As you were Agent Blake.”

As she turns to leave, something catches my eye. A small smudge on the doorframe, almost invisible unless you know what to look for.

Lauren taught me about trace evidence my first week in the field.“The smallest details solve the biggest cases,” she’d say.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of evidence bags and lukewarm coffee. I interview neighbors who haven’t seen anything, canvass local businesses with suspiciously malfunctioning security cameras, and chase leads that dissolve like morning fog.

Lauren’s investigative mantras keep me focused:“Follow the patterns. Follow the breaks in patterns. Follow your gut, but never trust it completely.”

As sunset paints the sky in bruised purples, I find myself drawn back to the Magnolia Diner. Celeste is behind the counter, and the sight of her hits me like a physical blow.

Lauren’s final warning rings in my ears:“The most dangerous attraction is the one you see coming but walk into anyway.”

“Agent Blake,” she says, voice carefully neutral. Her body language speaks volumes—slight tension, maintained distance, calculated movements. Everything Lauren taught me to recognize in a subject with something to hide.

I slide onto a stool, positioning myself to watch both her and the door. Old habits die hard.

“Had some questions about this morning’s delivery,” I say carefully. “Don’t suppose it came with a side of answers to all my case-related questions?”

Her smile falters—a crack in the facade.

Lauren would be circling that detail in red ink.

“Oh? Is there a problem?” Celeste asks.

“Just curious why you volunteered for that particular run.” I keep my voice light, but my eyes track her micro-expressions. “It’s not exactly the safest neighborhood.”

She laughs, but it sounds forced, brittle. “Like I said, I was worried about you. Is that so hard to believe? You looked like you needed a decent meal and some mothering.”

I lean in, lowering my voice. “Celeste, if you know something about these deaths, you need to tell me. I can protect you, but only if you’re honest with me. And by protect, I mean awkwardly flirt with you while trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism.”

For a moment, I think I see her walls crumble. She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume—jasmine and danger.

“Ethan,” she whispers, “there are things about me, about my past... things you wouldn’t understand. Like my brief stint as a competitive yodeler.”

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