Page 15 of Midnight at the Magnolia

The woman whose voice still guides me, even from the grave.

Celeste’s hand touches my arm, and electricity arcs between us. Even through that jolt of attraction, I notice how she positions herself—casual but ready, always ready. “I’m so sorry, Ethan. That must have been hell.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “It was. That’s why I requested this transfer. I thought a change of scenery might help exorcise some demons.” I meet her eyes. “Turns out, New Orleans has plenty of its own.”

“Has it helped?” Her voice is soft as velvet, genuinely curious. Or at least, an excellent imitation of genuine curiosity.

I hold her gaze, feeling that now-familiar mix of attraction and wariness. “In some ways, yes. In others...” I think of her reactions to my case files, her too-smooth movements, her perfectly crafted responses. “This city is like one of those Magic Eye pictures. The longer you look, the more you see hidden patterns emerging. And not all of them are pretty.”

We turn a corner, and the majestic spires of St. Louis Cathedral loom before us. Even as I admire the architecture, I’m mapping lines of sight, possible surveillance points, potential escape routes.

Lauren’s voice echoes:“Beautiful things make the best cover for ugly truths.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, meaning both the cathedral and the woman beside me.

“Did you know there are catacombs beneath the cathedral?” Celeste asks, her eyes reflecting the golden glow of streetlights. My investigator’s mind snaps to attention at her tone—too casual, too informed.

“Catacombs? Let me guess, they’re filled with the bodies of nosy FBI agents who asked too many questions?” I keep my tone light, but I’m watching her reaction carefully.

“Oh yes,” she says, her voice taking on a storyteller’s cadence. “They say the ghosts of long-dead priests still wander those tunnels. Some believe they’re connected to a network of secret passages throughout the city.” She pauses, then adds with calculated casualness, “Not that I’d know anything about that, of course.”

“Sounds like the perfect setup for a heist,” I say, testing her reaction.

Lauren’s ghost approves:“Sometimes the best way to catch a lie is to offer bait.”

Celeste stiffens—a micro-movement most would miss. But I’ve been trained to notice exactly these tells. “A heist?” Her tone is carefully neutral. Too neutral.

I push forward, watching her body language. “Yeah, actually. We’ve received intel about a potential art theft. Something big, possibly involving multiple locations.” I pause, then add, “It’s part of a larger conspiracy we’re uncovering.”

Her eyes widen slightly—fear? Recognition? “Really? That sounds dangerous.” She steps closer, and despite my training, my breath catches. “Be careful, Ethan. This city has a way of drawing you in, making you see things that aren’t there... and missing things that are right in front of you.”

As we pass a jazz club, the sound of a saxophone pulls us in. The space is small, dimly lit. I note the exits, the crowd composition, potential weapons.

Lauren would be proud—and then tell me to stop being so paranoid.

“Do you dance, Ethan?” Celeste asks, her eyes closed as she sways to the music.

I chuckle, trying to ignore how the movement emphasizes her curves. “Not if I can help it. I’ve been told my dancing looks like a giraffe having a seizure.”

“Live a little, Agent.” Her eyes open, full of challenge and something darker. “Sometimes the best way to solve a puzzle is to stop trying so hard to piece it together.”

She pulls me onto the dance floor before I can protest. The music shifts to a slow blues number, and suddenly she’s in my arms. Even through the haze of attraction, I notice how she positions us—clear view of both exits, back to the wall. Just like I would.

“Just follow my lead,” she murmurs, placing my hands on her waist. The silk of her dress is cool beneath my palms, but her skin burns hot. “Sometimes, Ethan, you need to stop thinking like a cop and start feeling like a man.”

Lauren’s voice fades as Celeste moves against me.

For once, the investigator takes a back seat to the man. Her body fits against mine perfectly, dangerously well. Her fingers trace up my arms, and I feel the calluses that a waitress shouldn’t have.

“You’re not as bad at this as you claim,” she murmurs.

I pull her closer, professional judgment clouded by the scent of her perfume, the heat of her body. “Maybe I just needed the right partner.”

Our eyes meet, and the world narrows to this moment. I see myself reflected in her gaze—desire, fear, secrets. My lips are inches from hers when reality crashes back in.

“...breaking news,” a TV blares. “Prominent businessman James Morrow has been found dead in his French Quarter home...”

Celeste goes rigid in my arms. Not just surprise—recognition. Fear. Guilt? My investigator’s instincts roar back to life, and Lauren’s voice returns:“Watch their first reaction. It’s the only honest one.”

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