Page 27 of Midnight at the Magnolia

The muffled sounds of the city filter through the window—distant sirens, the occasional burst of laughter, the low hum of traffic. I catalog each sound automatically, just like Lauren taught me. Always aware, always assessing. Even now, I can’t turn it off.

Finally, a soft knock at my door sends my pulse into overdrive. I take a deep breath, straighten my rumpled shirt, and perform the routine Lauren drilled into me—check weapon, check exits, check sight lines. Here goes nothing. Or everything.

Celeste stands there, a vision in the harsh hallway light. But it’s not her beauty that my trained eye catches first—it’s how she positions herself slightly to the side of the door frame, how her eyes sweep the room before entering, cataloging exits just like I would. Just like Lauren taught me to notice. And yet, I’m also noticing things my training can’t explain—the faint scent of coffee and something floral that seems to follow her, how she unconsciously brushes her thumb across her wrist when she’s thinking.

She holds a thermos in one hand and a bag that smells tantalizingly of fresh pastries in the other. “If we’re going to be up all night chasing ghosts, might as well be properly caffeinated,” she says, a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Then, almost to herself, she adds, “Though some ghosts, maybe we should let rest...”

The words send a chill down my spine.

Lauren’s voice echoes:“Pay attention to the throwaway lines, Ethan. That’s where people hide their truths.”

I shut the door, the soft click of the latch sounding like a death knell for my professional detachment. When I turn, Celeste is surveying the room with the same tactical awareness I use at crime scenes. Her eyes linger on the chaos of files spread across the bed.

“So,” she says, setting down her offerings and turning to face me. The movement is too fluid, too practiced. Lauren would be circling that detail in red ink. “Where do we start?”

I gesture to the files, trying to ignore how her presence makes the room feel smaller, more intimate. “I’ve been trying to find a connection between the victims, but nothing seems to fit. It’slike trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle where half the pieces are missing and the other half are from different boxes.”

Celeste nods, her eyes scanning the documents with an intensity that both impresses and unnerves me. She picks up a photo, and I watch her face with the attention Lauren taught me to use in interrogations. Every micro-expression tells a story—recognition, sadness, and something else I can’t quite place.

“This man,” she says, tapping the image. “I recognize him. He used to come into the diner late at night, always looking nervous.” Her voice carries the same careful neutrality Lauren used when she was onto something big.

My heart rate picks up, excitement warring with suspicion. I move closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. Professional distance dissolving like sugar in bitter coffee. “That’s James Morrow. Did he ever say anything suspicious? Order thesecret informant specialperhaps?”

Celeste’s brow furrows, creating a small crease between her eyebrows. Her teeth worry at her lower lip, a gesture I find inexplicably captivating. “Not exactly, but... he was always writing in this little black notebook. I remember thinking it was odd for a businessman to be so secretive.”

“And serial killers keep journals,”Lauren’s voice whispers in my memory.“So do their victims, when they know they’re being hunted.”

I jot down her observation, my mind racing. Professional instincts warring with how distracting it is to watch her mind work—the slight furrow of concentration between her brows, the way she mouths words silently as she reads, details I shouldn’t be cataloging but can’t seem to stop collecting.

“A notebook... that could be the break we need. If we could find it?—”

“Look at this,” Celeste interrupts, pointing to another file. Our hands brush as she leans in, and I have to suppress a shiver at the contact.

Lauren’s voice cuts through the fog of attraction:“Physical contact during interviews is either calculated or careless. Figure out which.”

“All of these victims had connections to City Hall, right?” Celeste continues, either oblivious to or expertly ignoring our contact. “Specifically, the Department of Urban Development.”

I look where she’s pointing, the realization hitting me like a thunderbolt. My free hand comes to rest on her shoulder—an unconscious gesture that Lauren would’ve crucified me for. “Celeste, this is... you’re incredible. I mean, this lead is incredible. You’ve just blown this case wide open.”

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, my training falters. There is only Celeste, her face inches from mine, her eyes wide with an emotion I can’t name but feel echoed in my own chest. The air between us crackles with electricity, with possibility.

“The most dangerous moment in any investigation,”Lauren whispers in memory,“is when you stop seeing the subject and start seeing the person.”

Without thinking, I pull her into a hug. She stiffens for a moment—tactical awareness, my training notes—then melts into my embrace. The warmth of her body against mine, the softness of her hair tickling my cheek—it feels right in a way that terrifies me.

As we pull apart, our eyes meet again, and the tension in the room ratchets up another notch. For a heart-stopping moment, I think she might kiss me. I find myself leaning in, professional ethics be damned.

But then my phone rings, the shrill sound shattering the moment like a bullet through glass.

Lauren’s voice:“Sometimes interruptions are the universe’s way of saving you from yourself.”

I answer it, turning away from Celeste to hide my frustration and the evidence of how affected I am by her proximity.

“Blake,” I bark into the phone, my voice rough with suppressed emotion.

“It’s Reeves,” comes the gruff reply. “We’ve got movement on Gregory Thompson. He’s headed to the warehouse district.”

I feel a surge of adrenaline, my body instantly on alert. Training kicks in, pushing aside everything else. Almost everything. “I’m on my way. Send me the location.”

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