Page 31 of Midnight at the Magnolia

“That’s crazy talk,” I inject indignation into my voice like I would poison into a vein. “I’m just a waitress, Ethan. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture making my heart ache with its humanity. “I want to believe that. God, I do. But my gut’s telling me there’s more to you than meets the eye.” His gaze pins me like a butterfly to a board. “And in my line of work, ignoring your gut can get you killed.”

The weight of my choices sits heavy on my shoulders as I watch him leave. Each step he takes echoes with possibility and regret. The herbs I carry feel like anchors now, reminding me of oaths sworn and promises made in blood.

Tonight’s events wash over me—Marcus’s death, Ethan’s growing suspicions, Sarah’s memory burning bright as ever. The helplessness I felt that night in the bayou rises up, threatening to choke me. I dig my nails into my palms, letting physical pain ground me like Grandma taught.

Dawn breaks over New Orleans, painting everything in shades of possibility and regret. I straighten my apron, tucking away the killer and becoming just another waitress starting herday. Each herb and charm I wear reminds me of who I am and what I’ve sworn to do.

The clock’s ticking, and sooner or later, something’s got to give. But as I move through the familiar morning routine, one truth remains crystal clear: there’s no going back now. Not until every man who hurt Sarah faces justice.

The path I’ve chosen is dark and dangerous, marked by herbs of protection and vials of vengeance. But I’ll walk it straight into hell if that’s what it takes.

After all, some debts can only be paid in blood.

11

ETHAN

CONFIDENTIAL BRIEF

DNA evidence suggests female perpetrator. Agent Blake requests access to botanical society records, focus on generational knowledge.

The Magnolia Dinerat midnight is a beast with teeth of neon and a hungry belly full of secrets. I sit at the empty counter, my fingers tracing battle scars on the worn Formica. Each groove feels like a confession, a story etched into the very fabric of this place. The bitter dregs of my cold coffee match the taste of suspicion on my tongue.

My mind replays every interaction with Celeste like a film reel I can’t stop—the way she moves between tables with lethal grace, how her accent gets stronger when she’s trying to deflect, the slight tremor in her hands when we discuss certain victims. Details I shouldn’t be collecting, shouldn’t be obsessing over, but can’t seem to stop noticing.

A memory flashes unbidden—Celeste’s face, taut with an emotion I couldn’t quite place, when I’d mentioned Gregory Thompson’s name during our last interview. Themicroexpression lasted less than a second, but I’ve found myself replaying it countless times, like picking at a scab I know should heal. Now that seed of doubt has grown into a thorny vine, wrapping around my heart, squeezing tighter with each passing moment.

A door creaks, and there she is. Celeste emerges from the shadows, her uniform wrinkled and her hair slightly mussed, looking like she’s been through hell and back. I catalog details automatically—the slight hesitation in her step, the way her eyes sweep the room before settling on me, the almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders.

But I’m also noticing things my training can’t explain—how the diner’s harsh lighting somehow makes her eyes more intense, the way she unconsciously touches her left wrist when she’s uncertain, the curve of her neck as she tilts her head in question.

“Ethan?” Her voice is a mixture of surprise and wariness, setting my nerves on edge. The way she says my name—soft ‘e’, lingering on the ‘n’—I’ve started noticing how it changes based on her mood. “I thought you’d left hours ago.”

I meet her gaze, trying not to drown in those eyes that seem to hold a universe of secrets. Each time I look at her, I notice something new—tonight it’s the faint gold flecks in her irises, catching the neon light like trapped stars. And here I thought I’d gotten over my weakness for dangerous women. Joke’s on me.

“We need to talk, Celeste.” I watch how she reacts to my tone—the slight straightening of her spine, the way her fingers curl against her thigh, probably unconsciously.

When did I start noticing these things?

When did they start mattering?

She tenses, and I can almost hear her defenses clicking into place, a fortress rising between us. Even that is fascinating—howshe can shift from warm to wary in the space of a heartbeat. Military-grade emotional walls, if I had to guess. “About what?”

The words tumble out, each one an accusation, a dagger thrown in the dark. “About the inconsistencies in your stories. About why you always seem to be in the right place at the right time. About what you’re hiding from me.” I find myself tracking the pulse point at her throat, the way her breath catches slightly at ‘hiding.’

A flicker of something—fear? defiance?—dances in her eyes before being swallowed by a sardonic smile. That smile should be registered as a lethal weapon.

“You’re imagining things, Ethan. What’s next, you’ll accuse me of being a secret agent because I can make a decent martini?”

Her attempt at levity only fuels my frustration. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks of my own torment. “Damn it, Celeste.” I step closer, drawn into her orbit like a planet circling a deadly sun. “I want to trust you. I want to believe that what we have is real. But every instinct I have is screaming that you’re hiding something.”

She turns away, her shoulders a taut line of tension beneath her uniform. The movement releases a hint of her scent—jasmine mixed with something darker, more dangerous. It’s becoming as familiar to me as gunpowder and coffee. “You’re wrong, Ethan. I’m just a waitress. Nothing more.”

I reach out, gently turning her to face me. The warmth of her skin sears my fingertips, igniting a fire I struggle to contain. I’ve memorized this too—the exact temperature of her skin, the way she leans almost imperceptibly into my touch before catching herself. “Look me in the eye and tell me that’s true.”

As Celeste steps closer, the heat radiating from her body makes my skin prickle. My heart hammers against my ribs, torn between the urge to shake the truth out of her and the desire topull her against me. Her scent, usually so comforting, now feels overwhelming. I’ve started catching it everywhere—in my car, my hotel room, like she’s become a ghost haunting my senses.

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