Page 20 of Midnight at the Magnolia

Lauren’s first rule of crime scenes echoes in my head:“Death has a language all its own. Learn to read it, or miss half the story.”

Early morning sunlight slices through grimy windows, and I catalog details with the obsessive precision she taught me—dust patterns disturbed, slight scuff marks on the floor, the almost imperceptible chemical smell beneath the decay.

The French Quarter’s underbelly, where secrets fester and justice comes to die. Just another day in paradise, folks. Though Lauren would say I’m being melodramatic again.

The floorboards creak ominously under my feet as I conduct my initial sweep. Two exits, three windows—all potential escaperoutes. Security camera in the hall is conveniently broken. A baby wails somewhere in the building, the sound muffled but piercing. I note it automatically—background noise that could mask a struggle, cover the sound of someone coming or going.

Detective Reeves appears, looking like he’s been chewed up and spit out by the city itself. I catalog his appearance through Lauren’s lens—tension in his shoulders suggesting he’s armed, slight tremor in his hands indicating he’s overdue for a cigarette. The acrid smell of stale smoke clings to him like a second skin.

“We’ve got a second body,” he growls, his voice as rough as sandpaper. “Male, late thirties. No obvious cause of death, just like Morrow and the others. But here’s the kicker—he’s got ties to Councilman Davis. And get this. The body was in the basement. We fucking missed it.”

My pulse quickens even as Lauren’s voice whispers:“Follow the money, follow the bodies. They always lead to the same place.”

“What kind of ties?” I keep my voice neutral, professional. “Details matter, Detective. They’re usually what gets overlooked.”

Reeves shoots me a look that could curdle milk. “Low-level fixer, mostly. But he might’ve known something important.” He scratches his stubbled chin, his eyes narrowing. “Davis has been untouchable for years. If this is what brings him down...”

I nod, mind already mapping connections. Lauren taught me to visualize cases like constellations—each star a fact, each line a potential link. This could be the thread that unravels everything, or just another dead end in a maze of corruption.

The basement hits me with a wall of evidence to process. One body, positioned naturally—no signs of staging. I note the victims’ lividity, indicating he died where he lies. No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. Just like the others. My training screams that this is wrong, all wrong.

“Sometimes the most important evidence is what you don’t find,”Lauren’s voice reminds me.“Look for the gaps, the negative spaces.”

Too many deaths, and now this—a prominent businessman and his fixer, both with ties to the most powerful man in the city. The connection’s there, just beyond my grasp, like catching smoke with bare hands.

The air is thick with the cloying sweetness of decay, undercut by the Quarter’s eternal perfume—stale beer, yesterday’s garbage, and sins best left unspoken. As I begin my examination, latex squeaking against skin, my traitorous mind drifts to Celeste. Her reaction to Morrow’s death plays on repeat in my head—the micro-expressions Lauren taught me to read, the subtle tells that scream she knows more than she’s saying.

“Focus, dammit,” I snarl at myself.

Lauren’s voice joins the chorus:“Your heart’s always been your blind spot, Ethan. Don’t let it get another person killed.”

I force myself to concentrate on the victims. Morrow, a businessman with a spotless public image. We found him upstairs in his room.

And now this fixer, John Doe for now. Average height, average build. The kind of face you’d pass on the street without a second glance.

Lauren’s voice cuts through my analysis:“Nobody’s average when they’re dead, Ethan. Every corpse tells a story—you just need to learn the language.”

My eyes catch on a detail—a small tattoo on the fixer’s wrist, mostly hidden by his watch. Lauren taught me to check there; people often hide their most telling marks under timepieces. I gently move it, revealing a stylized fleur-de-lis.

“Coincidences in murder investigations,”Lauren’s memory whispers,“are like unicorns. Pretty to think about, but they don’t exist.”

A commotion in the hallway snaps me to attention. Years of training kick in—assessing threats, marking positions, noting exits. Then I hear her voice, and every professional instinct wars with personal desire.

“Delivery for Detective Reeves. From the Magnolia Diner.”

Celeste. Here. Now. Lauren’s warning rings clear, but it’s drowned out by how the harsh crime scene lights somehow make her eyes more vivid—green like summer leaves in sunlight. A detail so irrelevant to the case that I’m annoyed with myself for noticing it.

Lauren’s warning rings clear:“The most dangerous suspects are the ones who make you want to believe them.”

I step into the hallway, and there she is. Dressed in that deceptively simple waitress uniform, holding a paper bag that smells of salvation after hours of death and decay. My investigator’s mind catalogs details automatically—her too-precise stance, the way she’s positioned herself with clear sightlines to both exits, how her eyes swept the scene before settling on me. Just like Lauren described in her last case notes about surveillance subjects.

“I’ve got this,” I tell Reeves, my voice rougher than intended. He doesn’t need to be told twice, his footsteps fading like the last echoes of normalcy in my life.

“Celeste,” I say, struggling to keep my voice neutral even as my body betrays me, pulse racing, palms suddenly damp.

Lauren’s voice cuts through the fog of attraction:“Your tells are showing, rookie. Control your reactions or lose control of the scene.”

“I was worried about you, Ethan.” Her words seem genuine, but I note the subtle signs Lauren taught me to recognize—slight tension in her shoulders, the way her weight shifts toward the exit.

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