Page 4 of Midnight at the Magnolia

Exhaustion settles over me as I secure my tools and prepare for bed. My mind catalogs the night’s revelations, sorting them like Grandma taught me to sort herbs: by usefulness, by risk, by effect.

Gregory: Disposable but connected.

The art heist: A means to an end.

Boudreaux: A stepping stone to higher prey.

As sleep claims me, I think of Sarah. Would she recognize what her death has made of me? Would she understand how her gentle sister became this creature of shadow and vengeance?

But those answers don’t matter. What matters is the next hunt, the next kill, the next step toward justice. New Orleans takes care of its own, they say.

Well, I’m taking care of New Orleans—one monster at a time.

Tomorrow, the real work begins. The art gallery will need studying, Gregory’s crew will need identifying, and I’ll need to prepare the right combination of herbs for whatever comes next. Like Grandma always said: proper preparation prevents poor performance.

And in my line of work, poor performance means death.

Just not usually mine.

2

ETHAN

INTERNAL FBI MEMO

Agent E. Blake assigned to Viper case. Note: Similar MO to unsolved Chicago murders. Cross-reference botanical toxin databases.

The muggy New Orleansair sticks to me like old regrets as I step out of my rental car. The city’s nocturnal heartbeat pulses around me—a seductive rhythm of distant jazz, drunken laughter, and whispers of secrets best kept in the dark.

Three bizarre deaths in as many weeks, and all I’ve got is a greasy diner lead at midnight. Lauren would have laughed at this—me chasing shadows while the real answers probably stare me in the face.

Would have laughed. Past tense. Always past tense now.

Fresh hell, different zip code. But something about this one feels... different. More dangerous. More like the case that took her from me.

I’ve been in town less than six hours, and already I’m drowning in the murky depths of this investigation. Three deaths, each more impossible than the last.

A corrupt cop found in his locked cruiser, lungs filled with swamp water despite being miles from any body of water.

A judge discovered in his chambers, body desiccated as if every drop of moisture had been sucked out.

A prominent businessman who seemingly spontaneously combusted in the middle of Bourbon Street.

Here, the corruption has the decency to be creative, at least.

I check my weapon out of habit, the familiar weight grounding me. The local PD is baffled, which means I get to wade through another jurisdiction’s nightmare.

Just like Lauren’s case.

Stop.Focus.

The bell chimes as I push open the diner door. The aroma of burnt coffee and decades of grease hits me first, followed by the quiet desperation of late-night regulars hunched over their cups. Standard stuff, until I see her.

She’s working the counter, dark hair escaping a messy bun, curves wrapped in a faded pink uniform that’s seen better days. But it’s her movements that catch my investigator’s eye—too precise, too measured. Waitresses develop a certain efficiency, but this is different. More like a dancer who’s memorized every step of a deadly ballet.

“Evening,” she calls out, voice pure Louisiana honey over broken glass. “Coffee?”

I slide onto a stool, cataloging details. No visible tattoos or scars. Calluses on her right hand inconsistent with waitress work. Eyes that scan the room every 47 seconds—I count twice to be sure.

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