Page 68 of Midnight at the Magnolia

“Celeste...” The way he says my false name carries years of unspoken feelings. “What did you do?”

I meet his gaze, seeing the mix of concern and understanding in his dark eyes. A bead of sweat trickles down my temple, and I can taste the salt on my lips when I lick them nervously. “I... I did what I thought I had to do. But now... God, Jazz, I’m in way over my head.” The words come out in a rush, tinged with desperation and a hint of regret. “I need a new identity, Jazz. A way to disappear.”

He sighs, shaking his head. The beads in his dreadlocks clink softly with the movement. “You’re playing a dangerous game, cher. And this ain’t no blues you can improvise your way out of.” His voice is low, tinged with a mixture of worry and resignation. “But I’ve got a friend who might be able to help. Both with your wound and your... other problem.”

“Who?”

“New guy in town. Doctor. Name’s Lucas Gautier. He’s discreet, and he owes me a favor.”

I hesitate, the taste of copper filling my mouth as I bite my lip in uncertainty. A stranger is a risk, but I’m running out of options. “Alright. Call him.”

As Jazz makes the call, his low voice a soothing murmur in the background, I let my mind wander to Ethan. The way his face had lit up when he laughed, crinkling the corners of his eyes. The warmth of his arms around me, strong and safe. The roughness of his stubble against my cheek when he kissed me. Now, those same arms would be trying to arrest me. The irony isn’t lost on me, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

My heart clenches painfully in my chest, a physical ache that rivals the throbbing in my shoulder. I’d known from the start that falling for Ethan was dangerous, but I’d done it anyway. And now, the price of that love is higher than I could have imagined. I close my eyes, fighting back the sting of tears.There’s no room for weakness now, no matter how much my heart yearns for what I’ve lost.

“He’ll be here in twenty,” Jazz says, pulling me from my thoughts. He sits beside me, the couch dipping slightly under his weight. His eyes search my face, and I can feel the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch. “You want to tell me the whole story now?”

As I recount the events of the night, the room gradually fills with the soft golden light of dawn. The shadows retreat, revealing the cluttered but cozy interior of Jazz’s apartment. Empty coffee mugs and dog-eared books litter every surface, and the walls are covered in concert posters and vinyl records.

I take a deep breath, wincing at the pain that lances through my shoulder. The coppery scent of blood still lingers in the air, mixing with the incense in a dizzying combination. “It started with Gregory’s heist at the museum. But that was just the tip of the iceberg. There’s a whole network of corruption in this city, Jazz. And I think... I think it might be connected to Sarah’s death.”

Jazz’s eyes widen, and I can hear the sharp intake of his breath. “Merde. No wonder you’re in trouble. But Celeste, this is bigger than you. Why not let the police handle it?”

I laugh bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “The police? Jazz, they’re part of it. The cop who shot me? He wasn’t trying to arrest me. He was trying to silence me.”

As the words leave my mouth, the full weight of what I’ve done hits me. I’ve crossed a line, and there’s no going back. But will Jazz understand, or will I lose him too? The thought sends a wave of panic through me, and I find myself reaching out, grasping his hand tightly.

“I didn’t know who else to turn to,” I whisper, hating the tremor in my voice.

Jazz squeezes my hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “You did the right thing coming here, cher. We’ll figure this out together.” The fierce loyalty in his eyes makes my throat tighten with emotion.

Before I can say anything more, a sharp knock cuts through the tension. Jazz opens the door to reveal a man who changes the entire energy of the room. Dr. Lucas Gautier stands in the doorway like some dark angel of science, his presence electric and slightly unhinged.

“Fascinating,” he says by way of greeting, those piercing blue eyes already cataloging my injury with clinical precision. “The wound pattern suggests a .38 caliber round, fired from approximately thirty feet, accounting for velocity degradation and impact angle.” He moves toward me with controlled energy, like a thunderstorm barely contained in human form. “The blood loss is consistent with peripheral arterial damage, though not severe enough to indicate major vessel compromise.”

“Lucas,” Jazz interrupts, amusement coloring his tone. “Maybe introduce yourself before diving into the forensics?”

Lucas blinks, as if suddenly remembering social niceties exist. “Ah, yes. Dr. Lucas Gautier. And you, my dear, are a delightfully complex puzzle of trauma patterns and biological responses to acute stress.”

I find myself caught between Jazz’s warm concern and Lucas’s intense scientific fascination. Two very different kinds of energy, both powerful in their own ways.

“Some gardens need both sun and storm to thrive,”Grandma’s voice whispers as I watch them interact.

“First, let’s handle that wound,” Lucas says, his movements precise as he sets up his medical kit with an efficiency that borders on obsession. “The human body is such a fascinating machine—capable of sustaining remarkable damage while maintaining consciousness. Your elevated heart rate and skinpallor suggest early stage hypovolemic shock, yet your cognitive functions appear unimpaired. Remarkable.”

“Lucas,” Jazz’s voice carries a warning note beneath its usual melody. “She’s not one of your experiments, brother.”

I watch them orbit each other—Jazz’s fluid, musical movements a counterpoint to Lucas’s controlled chaos. The doctor’s eyes gleam with barely contained excitement as he examines my wound, like a kid who just found a new toy to dissect.

“The trajectory of the bullet...” Lucas mutters, fingers probing with clinical precision. “If it had been two centimeters to the left... absolutely fascinating. The mathematics of survival are truly extraordinary.”

Jazz settles beside me on the couch, close enough that I can feel his warmth but not quite touching. Always respecting the boundaries I’ve set, even while his eyes tell a different story. “You doing okay, cher? Our boy Lucas here gets a little... intense when he’s working.”

“Intense is hardly the word,” Lucas scoffs, not looking up from his work. “I prefer to think of it as appropriately focused enthusiasm for the complexities of human anatomy and its response to trauma. Now, this is going to sting—the nerve endings in this region are particularly sensitive to...”

I bite back a gasp as he cleans the wound, and Jazz’s hand finds mine automatically. The contact sends warmth shooting up my arm, different from but just as potent as the pain. His thumb traces small circles on my skin—comforting, grounding, dangerous.

“The way he makes everything sound like a science experiment,” Jazz murmurs close to my ear, his breath warm against my neck, “you’d think he forgot there’s a beautiful woman attached to all thosefascinatingnerve endings.”

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