Page 3 of Midnight at the Magnolia

For a heartbeat, I’m back in the bayou, the night air thick with the scent of death and revenge. I’ve done more than stand on that cliff’s edge. I’ve learned to soar.

“Can’t say that I have,” I lie, touching the scar behind my ear, a map of pain etched in flesh. “The biggest thrill I get is switching from the lunch menu to dinner.”

Gregory leans closer, his cologne mixing with whiskey in a toxic cocktail of desperation and ambition. “Maybe it’s time to spread those wings. I’ve got plans. Big plans that could change everything.” He pauses, trying to build suspense. “But it’s risky. The higher you fly, the harder you fall.”

The thrill of the hunt pulses through me, as familiar as my own heartbeat. I keep my breathing steady, maintaining the facade of wide-eyed interest, but my mind is already plotting trajectories.

Like Grandma always said.Know your herbs, know your marks, know your moment.

“Sounds dangerous,” I murmur, allowing my fingers to brush his arm. The touch sends revulsion crawling across my skin, but it’s a calculated risk. Touch builds trust, and trust makes men careless. “A girl could get hurt playing those kinds of games.”

His eyes gleam with perceived victory. The look every mark gets when they think they’re the smartest person in the room. “Oh, it is. But that’s what makes it worth it. The danger. The risk. The reward.”

I laugh, and this time there’s genuine amusement. If he knew the real dangers that stalk the streets of New Orleans, he’d never leave his house. “I wouldn’t know. My idea of danger is forgetting to restock the syrup before the breakfast rush.” I let longing creep into my voice, watching him take the bait.

He drains his coffee, the mug hitting the counter with a dull thud. “Your loss. But remember, when you hear about the big score that rocks this city, you’ll know who was behind it.”

Something dark stirs inside me, a familiar hunger that tastes like justice and smells like Sarah’s favorite magnolia perfume. This arrogant fool thinks he can walk into my city and paint itred. The last person who tried that ended up feeding the cypress roots in the bayou.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” I promise, voice light as arsenic sugar. “Maybe I’ll even see your name in lights. Gregory Thompson: King of the Big Easy.”

He stands, tossing crumpled bills on the counter. His hand lingers near mine, an invitation I’ll never accept. “You do that, sweetheart. And who knows? Maybe I’ll come back and sweep you off your feet with my newfound riches.”

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” I say, thinking of the various ways breath can be bated—nightshade, hemlock, oleander. So many possibilities, each with its own poetry. “Don’t forget to bring me one of them fancy café au laits from Café du Monde.”

As the bell signals his exit, I let my mask slip slightly. Just enough to breathe. Gregory’sbig scoreisn’t what interests me—it’s what it might lead to. Every criminal in this city is connected, a web of corruption that all leads back to the men who took Sarah. Gregory is just another thread to pull.

The rest of my shift blurs into a routine of coffee and meaningless chatter until a conversation from the corner booth catches my attention. Two of Boudreaux’s men, drunk enough to forget the cardinal rule of their profession: loose lips end up in shallow graves.

“Gregory’s got it all planned out,” the first one slurs, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm. “The art gallery on St. Charles. Opening night of the new exhibit. It’s gonna be huge.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” the other hisses, grabbing his companion’s wrist. His eyes dart around the diner like scared rabbits. “You want Boudreaux to gut us both?”

The name sends electricity through my veins. Boudreaux. Another piece of the puzzle, another step closer to the men who destroyed my sister. I keep wiping tables, my movementsmechanical while my mind races. An art heist connected to Boudreaux means this is bigger than Gregory’s desperate grab for glory.

I arrange the sugar packets with steady hands, but my pulse pounds with possibility. Every monster I remove from New Orleans brings me closer to the ones who matter. The ones who thought they could play gods with my sister’s life.

Dawn bleeds across the sky in shades of purple and gold as I leave the diner, the city stirring to life around me. The scent of fresh beignets and chicory coffee drifts from Café du Monde, mixing with the ever-present undertone of decay that marks the French Quarter. Like everything in New Orleans, beauty and rot dance together in an endless waltz.

Tourists stumble past, drunk on overpriced hurricanes and the city’s manufactured magic. They don’t see the real power here—not in the voodoo shops or ghost tours, but in the quiet places where decisions are made and lives are broken. The places I hunt.

My apartment in the Marigny offers sanctuary, but I head straight for the hidden panel in my closet. The scent of gun oil and leather mingles with dried herbs—my two worlds colliding. Grandma would laugh at that, how I’ve married her ancient knowledge with modern methods.

“The best poison,”she always said,“is the one they never see coming.”

Inside the panel, my tools wait. Lock picks, bugs, and vials of clear liquid that’s sent more than one monster to their judgment. Each bottle is labeled in Grandma’s precise hand—names in French that mean nothing to anyone else. In the next few weeks I might require the essence of hemlock, sophisticated enough to look natural in an autopsy.

As I catalog my supplies, memories surface like corpses in a flood:

Sarah’s laughter at dawn, planning our escape to the city.

The way her hand felt in mine, cold and lifeless in the bayou.

The deputies’ casual dismissal of another runaway girl.

I don’t fight the memories anymore. Pain is a teacher, and I’ve learned its lessons well. Every death I orchestrate brings me closer to the men who took her, who thought they could bury their sins in swamp water and silence.

I check my burner phone—no messages. The clock reads 6:17 AM. Time enough for sleep before tonight’s reconnaissance at the art gallery. I need to understand the layout, the security, the players. Gregory’s heist isn’t my target, but it’s a thread that leads to Boudreaux, and Boudreaux might lead to the others.

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