Page 18 of Midnight at the Magnolia

“Morning, Celeste,” calls out Jimmy, the short-order cook. The sizzle and pop of the grill provide a steady backbeat to the diner’s morning symphony. “You’re looking chipper this morning. Hot date last night?”

Heat creeps up my neck, memories of Ethan’s intense gaze flashing through my mind. The rosemary in my pocket seems to burn, a reminder to stay focused.

“Just the usual, Jimmy,” I deflect, my voice carefully light as I tie on my apron. The familiar weight of hidden vials settles against my hip. “You know me.”

I catch sight of Ally, one of the other waitresses, laughing with a regular. For a moment, a pang of longing shoots through me. In another life, we could have been friends. I could have shared Grandma’s recipes for healing teas instead of deadly tinctures.

The thought burns like foxglove in my veins. Friends are a luxury I can’t afford. Not with the blood on my hands, the mission that consumes my every waking moment. Ally’s innocence, her easy laughter, are reminders of everything I’ve sacrificed.

Before I can sink deeper into that particular pit of regret, I catch a snippet of conversation from a nearby booth. Two men, hunched over steaming coffee cups, speak in low, urgent tones. My hand brushes the clarity herbs at my collar as I strain to hear.

“...Morrow’s death changes everything. The boss wants to move up the timeline.”

“But what about Gregory? He’s a loose cannon. If he screws this up...”

“Then we’ll deal with him. Permanently if necessary.”

Ice floods my veins, even as my mind catalogs details. One man’s hands show calluses from regular gun use. The other’sjacket bulges slightly—armed, right-handed, amateur hour based on how he keeps adjusting the weapon.

The bell chimes again, cutting through my assessment. Ethan walks in, and my traitorous heart performs its usual acrobatics. He looks haunted, dark circles shadowing his eyes. The urge to reach for him, to offer comfort, wars with the instinct to maintain distance.

“Morning, Agent Blake,” I call out, injecting false cheer into my voice even as I note his tactical awareness—eyes scanning exits, hand unconsciously near his weapon. Just like me. “Rough night?”

“You could say that.” He slumps onto a stool, the weight of the world pressing down on his broad shoulders. “Coffee, please. Strong as you can make it.”

As I pour his coffee, I study him carefully. The sharp lines of his face are etched with exhaustion and something else—frustration, perhaps? Or is it suspicion? My fingers brush the protection herbs in my pocket. Just in case.

“The Morrow case?” I ask, keeping my tone casual even as my pulse quickens. The dried vervain in my bracelet seems to pulse against my skin, a warning to tread carefully.

Ethan nods, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Among other things. This whole investigation... it’s like trying to catch smoke. Every time I think I’m getting close, the trail goes cold.”

Guilt twists in my gut like Spanish needles. How much of his frustration stems from my careful planning? From the untraceable poisons Grandma taught me to brew? From the ways of moving through shadows she showed me in the bayou?

“Maybe you just need a fresh perspective,” I suggest, leaning on the counter, close enough to catch the faint scent of his aftershave mixing with the protective herbs I wear. “Want to bounce some ideas off me? I’ve got a pretty good ear for gossip.”

Our eyes meet, and for a heartbeat, I see a flicker of suspicion that makes my clarity herbs feel like they’re burning against my skin. But then it’s gone, replaced by warmth that makes my carefully constructed walls tremble.

“I appreciate the offer, Celeste, but I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.” Ethan’s phone buzzes, the harsh sound cutting through the diner’s morning chatter. His expression darkens like storm clouds gathering over the bayou. “Damn.”

“Everything okay?” I ask, genuine concern coloring my voice even as my fingers trace the protective sigils sewn into my apron. Something’s wrong—I can feel it in my bones, the way Grandma taught me to feel storms coming.

“They need me back at the Morrow crime scene. Apparently, they’ve found something new.”

My mind races even as I maintain my carefully crafted mask. What could they have found? Did I miss something? The yarrow in my pocket seems to burn—a warning. Time to adapt or die, just like the plants Grandma showed me in the swamp.

“Be careful out there,” I call after him, the words carrying more weight than he could possibly know. The protection herbs at my throat pulse with each heartbeat, a reminder of what’s at stake.

After he leaves, I begin gathering pastries, packing them carefully into a box. A trick as old as time—hiding danger behind sweetness. Like the poisonous flowers Grandma would arrange so beautifully in her garden.

“What’s all this?” Jimmy’s voice startles me. I force my hands not to reach for the vials hidden in my clothes.

“Just thought I’d bring some treats to those poor cops working the Morrow case.” I wink, playing up the flirtatious angle while my mind calculates risks and exits. “A little sugar goes a long way in loosening lips.”

Jimmy’s eyes narrow, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Uh-huh. And this wouldn’t have anything to do with that FBI agent who’s been coming in, would it? The one you’ve been making eyes at?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I silently curse my body’s betrayal.

Get it together, Celeste. You’re better than this.

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