Page 30 of Midnight at the Magnolia

Once they’re gone, I finish what I came to do. A quick shot of poison, carefully arranged to look like an overdose. By morning, he’ll be another statistic—just another casualty of the drug trade he helped build. Poetic justice, served with a side of irony.

I slip the empty syringe into a specially lined pocket—Grandma’s design, meant for carrying healing herbs, now repurposed for darker work. The weight of it reminds me of all the evidence I’ve collected about Marcus’s operation. The ledgers, the photos, the proof of every girl he helped disappear. All of it waiting in a safe place, ready to be delivered to the right hands once he’s found.

The satisfaction mingles with guilt in my stomach, a cocktail I’ve grown used to drinking. Another piece of Gregory’s empiredismantled, another step closer to the men who murdered Sarah. But as I straighten my clothes and check for any traces left behind, Ethan’s face flashes in my mind.

What would he think if he could see me now? Would he understand that sometimes justice wears a darker face? That sometimes the law isn’t enough to protect the innocent?

The questions haunt me as I head for the Magnolia Diner, my sanctuary in this storm of secrets. Need to establish my alibi, wash away the night’s sins with industrial soap and endless coffee. The streets quiet as I walk, like the city itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next.

Or maybe it’s just waiting to see how long I can keep dancing between vengeance and love before one of them destroys me.

The diner’s dark when I let myself in through the back door, each familiar creak a welcome home. The smells of grease and coffee wrap around me, masking the herbal scent of death that clings to my clothes.

I’m elbow-deep in scalding water, scrubbing evidence from my hands with the same herbs Grandma once used to clean ceremonial bowls, when I hear it—the bell above the door chiming like a warning.

“Celeste? You here?”

Ethan’s voice sends electricity dancing down my spine, making the protective sachets at my hip burn with warning. Every instinct Grandma drilled into me screams to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I scramble to wrap the evidence in a dishrag, my heart doing a frantic dance against my ribs.

The disposal growls to life, eating my secrets like a hungry beast. Each herb and tool disappearing into darkness, like so many pieces of myself. The sound feels too loud, too obvious—like every sin I’ve committed is screaming for attention.

His footsteps approach—confident, steady, everything I’m not right now. I touch the dried rue at my throat, seeking clarity,and turn just as he appears in the doorway. The emergency lights paint him in shades of danger and desire, all sharp angles and concerned eyes. The kind of man Grandma warned me about—the ones who see too much.

“In here!” I call out, touching each protection charm sewn into my apron like a rosary. “Just doing some late-night prep work.” The lie sits heavy on my tongue, mixing with the lingering taste of tonight’s justice.

Ethan fills the kitchen with his presence, making the air thick with unspoken questions. His eyes sweep the room with cop-like precision, and I feel exposed, raw. Like all my carefully placed herbs and charms can’t hide the darkness underneath.

“At this hour?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that makes my stomach flip. Not quite suspicion, but getting there. The herbs at my wrist pulse with warning—he’s dangerous not just because he’s FBI, but because he makes me want to trust him.

I force my lips into a playful smile, praying the dim light hides the guilt in my eyes. “All good here, Agent Blake. Sometimes inspiration strikes at odd hours.” I throw in a wink, falling back on the flirtatious waitress act like a shield. “Unless you count my secret midnight quest for the perfect pancake batter.”

He steps closer, bringing with him that intoxicating scent of sandalwood and danger. Memories of our kiss flood back, making all my protective herbs feel useless against this particular threat. The urge to confess burns in my throat—to tell him about Marcus, about Sarah, about every dark deed done in the name of justice.

“Celeste,” he says my name like a prayer, like something sacred instead of cursed, “what’s really going on here?”

The weight of my secrets presses down, heavier than all the herbs and charms I carry. For one wild moment, I considerlaying it all at his feet—every sin, every murder, every step on this path of vengeance. But Sarah’s ghost holds me back, and Grandma’s voice whispers warnings about men who wear badges and make promises they can’t keep.

“Nothing’s going on, Ethan,” I meet his gaze steadily, drawing strength from the protection herbs Grandma sewed into my clothes. “Couldn’t sleep, so I came to get a head start on tomorrow. That’s all.”

He studies me for what feels like eternities, while I silently recite the properties of each herb I carry—yarrow for courage, rue for protection, rosemary for clarity. His hand reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and my carefully constructed defenses waver.

“You know you can trust me, right?” The tenderness in his voice nearly breaks me. Nearly makes me forget every lesson Grandma taught about keeping secrets.

“I do trust you, Ethan,” I whisper, and it’s not entirely a lie. I trust him to be exactly what he is—a good man, a seeker of justice. That’s precisely why I can’t tell him everything. Some truths destroy good men.

The space between us crackles with possibility and danger. His hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, and despite every warning herb burning against my skin, I go willingly. His heartbeat is steady against my chaos, a rhythm that makes me wish for simpler lives and cleaner hands.

“Then why do I feel like you’re always holding something back?” Frustration and longing war in his voice. “I want to believe that this—us—could be something real. But every time I feel like I’m getting close to you, it’s like trying to catch smoke.”

Reality crashes back, making the herbs at my throat pulse with warning. I step back, instantly missing his warmth but knowing it’s necessary.

Grandma’s voice whispers:“Some fires burn too hot, child. They’ll consume everything if you let them.”

“It’s late, Ethan. We both should get some rest.” Marcus’s death sits heavy in my mind, a reminder of why I can’t have this—can’t have him.

Determination flashes in his eyes, somehow more dangerous than suspicion. “This isn’t over, Celeste. I care about you, but I can’t shake the feeling that you’re mixed up in something dangerous.”

If he only knew. Marcus’s cooling body in that alley. The list of others who deserved their justice. Sarah’s unavenged memory.

---