Page 19 of Midnight at the Magnolia

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jimmy. I’m just being neighborly. Besides, you know me. I like my men like I like my coffee - hot, strong, and nowhere near my personal life.”

“Sure, sure,” he chuckles, turning back to the grill. “Just be careful, Celeste. Falling for a Fed? That’s a dangerous game.”

If only he knew just how dangerous.

As I finish my shift and hang up my apron, I catch sight of my reflection in the diner’s chrome napkin dispenser. For a moment, I see myself as Ethan must see me—the friendly waitress with a ready smile and a sympathetic ear. A mirage of normalcy in his turbulent world.

But beneath that facade lies a darker truth, as black and fathomless as the depths of the Mississippi. I am a vigilante, a killer. I have blood on my hands, all in the name of justice. The waitress is the mask, darling. The killer is the reality.

And yet, as I think of Ethan—his warm eyes, his unwavering dedication to the truth—I feel a flicker of doubt, a crack in the foundation of my resolve. Is what I’m doing really justice? Or have I become the very thing I sought to destroy?

No time for philosophical debates, Celeste.

You made your choice long ago.

I push the thought aside, locking it away in the darkest corners of my mind. I can’t afford such doubts. Not now. Not when I’m so close to my goal. The end justifies the means, right?

The streets of New Orleans stretch before me as I leave the diner, a labyrinth of shadows and secrets. The weight of myvarious poisons feels heavier than usual. Each step takes me closer to a confrontation I’ve both dreaded and longed for.

The air shifts, and my instincts—honed by years of training and enhanced by Grandma’s teachings—scream a warning. There, just beyond the pool of light cast by a flickering streetlamp, stands a figure I thought I’d never see again.

My blood runs cold as recognition dawns. The vervain and rue in my pockets seem to pulse with warning. It’s him—the man who set me on this path of vengeance.

The one who took Sarah.

Memories flood back, bitter as wormwood. I’m sixteen again, hiding in the closet, clutching the protection charm Grandma made me, watching through the slats as this monster destroyed my world. The scent of blood mixing with Sarah’s favorite jasmine perfume. The sound of her final breath.

“Hello, little Celeste,” he calls out, his voice carrying easily in the still night air. “My, my, how you’ve grown.”

My hand moves to the knife hidden at my waist, even as my other hand grips the most lethal of my vials. Nightshade and oleander mixed with darker things Grandma only taught me after Sarah died. But before I can move, he melts back into the shadows, his mocking laughter lingering like poisonous mist.

I stand frozen, my heart pounding against the herbs sewn into my clothing. He’s here. In New Orleans. And he knows who I am, what I’ve become. The weight of my choices presses down like kudzu vines, threatening to choke the life from me.

The pastry box in my hands feels like a prop in a play I’m no longer sure how to perform. But sometimes the best poison comes in the sweetest package—another of Grandma’s lessons I took to heart.

I flag down a taxi, giving an address a block from the crime scene. As we wind through the streets, I check my supplies. Eachvial nestled exactly where it should be, every herb and poison in its place. The tools of my trade hidden behind sugar and smiles.

When the taxi pulls up, I step out into the humid night air like I’m walking into Grandma’s garden—beautiful things that can heal or kill, depending on how you use them. The crime scene isn’t far now. I can see the flashing lights, hear the murmur of voices carried on the breeze.

I square my shoulders, gripping the pastry box like a shield while deadly herbs and poisons hide beneath my clothes. The night can throw its worst at me. I’ll meet it with poison in my veins and steel in my grip, just like Grandma taught me.

The yellow police tape flutters in the breeze—a boundary between worlds, like the line of salt Grandma used to pour across our doorway. As I duck under it, pastry box in hand and heart in my throat, I know I’m crossing more than just a physical threshold.

No turning back now, Celeste.

The herbs against my skin whisper ancient warnings, and somewhere in the darkness, a killer knows my name. But I’ve come too far to stop now. The path of vengeance is like the deadliest of Grandma’s plants—once it takes root, it grows until it chokes out everything else.

Time to see this through, no matter the cost.

7

ETHAN

INVESTIGATION NOTES

Pattern suggests killer operates within victim social circles. Agent Blake theorizes service industry connection. Surveillance of local establishments initiated.

The stenchof death clings to me as I duck under the yellow police tape.

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