Page 63 of Midnight at the Magnolia

Self-defense. Such a pretty lie. Like calling nightshade a healing herb.

More agents pour in, their flashlight beams cutting through the darkness like search lights. Each one illuminates another piece of evidence, another nail in my coffin. The knife. The blood. The body. My carefully tended garden of lies withering under their harsh light.

“Even without her statement, we’ve got enough to hold her,” Reeves says, closer now. “The DNA evidence from previous scenes, the security footage...”

Previous scenes. Other bodies. Other gardens I’ve tended in the dark.

Ethan’s body goes rigid against mine. I feel the exact moment reality sets in, when he truly understands the scope of what I’ve done. What I am. His arms fall away completely, leaving me cold.

“The truth’s like sunrise in a poison garden,”Grandma would say.“It shows everything, pretty and ugly alike.”

I let them lead me away, my wrists bound behind my back. Each step feels like walking through quicksand, drawing me deeper into consequences I can’t escape. But as we reach the door, I hear his voice one last time.

“Wait.”

I turn, unable to help myself. Ethan stands in the middle of my chaos, beautiful and broken. The look in his eyes burns worse than any poison I’ve ever brewed.

“Was any of it real?” he asks softly. “Us?”

The truth rises in my throat like sap from a wounded tree. “That was the only real thing about me,” I whisper.

But as they lead me out into the night, I wonder if that makes it better or worse. If love can be both poison and antidote. If some gardens are worth burning to save what grows in them.

Grandma’s final lesson echoes in my mind:“Everything that grows must eventually be harvested, child. The only choice we get is how we reap what we’ve sown.”

Looking back at Ethan one last time, I know my harvest has only just begun.

17

ETHAN

URGENT UPDATE

Agent Blake reports direct contact with suspected Viper. Note: Agent’s judgment possibly compromised. Review of case leadership pending.

The first raysof sunlight creep through my office blinds like an unwanted confession, casting accusatory shadows across the evidence board. I press the ice pack harder against my throbbing temple, each throb a reminder of Celeste’s betrayal. The physical pain is almost welcome—it distracts from the deeper ache in my chest.

“You always did have a blind spot for beautiful women with secrets,”Lauren’s voice whispers from my memory. She would have seen through Celeste immediately, would have noticed all the signs I chose to ignore.

Gregory is dead. The heist failed. And Celeste... God, Celeste. The woman I love stands at the center of it all, a spider in a web I’m only beginning to understand. Some FBI agent I am, falling for the femme fatale. Lauren would never let me live this down.

“Pattern recognition,”her memory chides.“It’s what made you a good detective. Until a pretty smile made you forget how to look.”

I rub my temples, feeling the rough stubble beneath my palms. The image of Celeste standing over Gregory’s body burns behind my eyes—the fluid grace of her movements, the cold determination in her expression. Like watching a mask slip to reveal the predator beneath.

Yet when it was over, she collapsed into my arms, all trembling vulnerability and tears. The scent of her hair mingled with gunpowder and fear still lingers in my nose, a toxic perfume I can’t shake.

Another memory surfaces, sharp enough to draw blood: Celeste and I walking through the French Quarter on a lazy Sunday. Sunlight catching in her hair like a halo, her laugh pure music. Her fingers intertwined with mine as if they belonged there. That memory feels like a dream now, or maybe a carefully crafted lie.

“Every good undercover knows how to make the lie feel real,”Lauren’s voice reminds me.“You taught me that, remember?”

Which version of Celeste is real? The warm-smiled waitress who stole my heart? Or the efficient killer who emerged in that museum? My training says they’re both masks, carefully crafted personas hiding something darker underneath. My heart... my heart just wants another Sunday afternoon in the Quarter, another moment believing in the dream.

The office outside my door begins to stir, phones ringing and conversations building like a tide of normalcy I’m no longer part of. I check my watch, surprised to see it’s past nine. Time slips differently when you’re watching your world unravel.

I lean back in my chair, studying the evidence board with Lauren’s methodical eye. Each photo, each connection, eachpiece of evidence I’ve gathered speaks to a truth I didn’t want to see. The woman I love is either a victim or a villain, and I’m terrified to find out which.

Because deep down, I already know the answer. I just don’t know if I can live with it.

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