Page 14 of Midnight at the Magnolia

Lauren taught me to see cities this way.“The devils hide in the details,”she’d say.“You just have to know where to look.”

The cobblestones whisper beneath our feet, telling tales of centuries past. I’m torn between admiring the wrought-iron balconies dripping with ferns and analyzing Celeste’s behavior. The way she moves through the crowd sets off warning bells—too fluid, too calculated. Her eyes scan constantly, marking exits and threats with a precision that mirrors my own training.

As we pass a dimly lit bar, a grizzled old man stumbles out, his weathered face a map of hard living. My hand instinctively moves toward my weapon until I assess the threat level—drunk, unarmed, familiar with Celeste based on body language.

Old habits from Lauren’s training never die.

He squints at us, then breaks into a toothless grin. “Well, if it ain’t the lovely Miss Celeste.” His eyes, sharper than his disheveled appearance suggests, scan me with surprising alertness. “And who’s this fine gentleman? New beau?”

Celeste laughs, a sound like dark honey. “Just a friend, Uncle Lou. How’s tricks?”

I watch their interaction through an investigator’s lens. The casual familiarity feels rehearsed. There’s information being exchanged in their seemingly innocent banter, just like Lauren taught me to spot.

“Every conversation in the streets has three layers,”she’d say.“What’s said, what’s meant, and what’s hidden.”

The old man’s rheumy eyes twinkle with unsettling intelligence. “Can’t complain, can’t complain. City’s full of secrets, and I aim to know ‘em all before I die.”

He turns to me, his gaze suddenly sharp enough to cut glass. “Word of advice, son. In New Orleans, nothing’s what it seems. Especially not the pretty ones.” He winks at Celeste and shuffles off into the night.

I turn to Celeste, eyebrow raised. “Friend of yours?”

She shrugs, a fluid motion that does interesting things to the neckline of her dress. My eyes catch the movement, but my mind catalogs how the gesture masks her scanning the street behind us. “Uncle Lou knows everyone and everything in this city. He’s harmless... mostly.”

The encounter leaves me unsettled, adding another layer to the mystery that is Celeste Deveraux.

Lauren’s voice whispers in my memory:“The most dangerous sources are the ones who appear harmless. They see everything because nobody sees them.”

“You know, that’s the third cryptic warning I’ve received since arriving in this city,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “What is it about New Orleans that has everyone speaking in riddles? Is there a secret handbook I missed at the airport?”

Celeste steps closer, her perfume enveloping me in a cloud of jasmine and danger. Even as desire pools in my gut, I note how the movement puts her back to a wall, gives her clear sight lines in three directions.

Too tactical to be coincidental.

“Oh, Ethan. You’re such an outsider.” Her eyes lock with mine, bottomless pools that promise both answers and oblivion. “New Orleans isn’t just a city, it’s a living, breathing entity. It has its own rules, its own language. And it doesn’t take kindly to those who try to impose their own order on its chaos.”

Lauren would have loved that line—right before pointing out how it deflects from any real answers. God, I miss her analytical mind almost as much as I miss her smile.

“And you?” I can’t help asking, professional objectivity warring with growing attraction. “Are you one of those mysteries I’m supposed to lose myself in?”

Lauren’s voice chides me:“The obvious question isn’t always the right one.”

Celeste’s smile is enigmatic, a perfect blend of promise and threat. “I guess you’ll have to keep digging to find out, won’t you?” She turns, continuing down the street. The movement is too smooth, too controlled. Like someone trained to always be ready for anything.

As I follow her, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being led deeper into a labyrinth. Lauren’s last case had felt like this too—each answer spawning three new questions, each step forward feeling more and more like a carefully laid trap.

We continue our walk, my senses cataloging everything. The sweetness of pralines, the spice of jambalaya, the sour tang of spilled beer—all perfect cover scents for less innocent activities. Three cops on the corner, two tourists stumbling drunk, a street musician whose case offers perfect concealment for a weapon. In the distance, a saxophone wails, its mournful sound matching the ache in my chest.

“So, Ethan,” Celeste says, breaking the charged silence. “What really brought you to New Orleans? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

I hesitate, weighing truth against caution. Lauren’s voice whispers: “Sometimes the best way to get truth is to offer it first.” Still, old habits die hard. “I needed a change,” I admit, the words tasting bitter. “My last case in Chicago... it didn’t end well.”

Celeste’s expression softens, but I catch the micro-tell—a slight tension around her eyes. She’s gathering intelligence, just like I am. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want to talk about it?”

To my surprise, I do. “It was a serial killer case. I got too close, too involved.” My throat tightens around the words. “In the end, I caught him, but... the last victim was someone I cared about.”

My fiancée.

My Lauren.

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