Page 35 of Midnight at the Magnolia

As I dress for the day ahead, my phone buzzes.

Reeves: Meeting at nine sharp.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what is to come. The weight of my badge reminds me of the oath I’ve sworn, the lives depending on me cracking this case. I can’t let my feelings for Celeste cloud my judgment.

Too fucking late.

Celeste Deveraux has wormed her way under my skin, into my heart. And no matter how this plays out, I have a sinking feeling that one of us is going to end up burned.

With one last glance at my reflection, I grab my badge and gun. It is time to face the music. As I step out of my hotel room,Celeste’s scent still clinging to my skin, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking into a trap of my own making.

And the worst part? A part of me doesn’t care.

The pieces are already in play, and I am fumbling to catch up. The stakes are higher than I could have ever imagined. And as I step into the harsh light of day, I know that whatever comes next will change everything. The only question is: will Celeste be beside me or across an interrogation table when this all comes crashing down?

The weight of my choices presses down on me, a constant reminder of the fine line I walk between duty and desire. But as I make my way to the precinct, the bustling streets of New Orleans a stark contrast to the intimate world Celeste and I created last night, I know one thing for certain: I’ve crossed a line that no amount of backpedaling can erase. The path I’ve chosen is fraught with danger and uncertainty, but it is mine.

And I will see it through to the bitter end, no matter the cost. Welcome to rock bottom, Blake. Hope you enjoy the view.

12

CELESTE

LOUISIANA DAILY

Breaking: Viper kills prominent defense attorney. Evidence suggests killer may be woman. “Grace and precision in every move,” says security expert.

The morning rushat the Magnolia Diner swirls around me, a symphony of clattering dishes and sizzling griddles that barely penetrates the fog of my thoughts. Rich coffee mingles with sweet maple syrup and savory bacon, the scents layering like ingredients in one of Grandma’s protection sachets. But today, even these familiar comfort smells do little to soothe the storm brewing in my mind.

“Morning reveals what night conceals,”Grandma used to say, crushing herbs in her mortar while teaching me to read the day’s omens. This morning feels heavy with portent, the air thick with more than just cooking grease and chicory.

I move on autopilot, the worn linoleum floor creaking softly beneath my sensible shoes as I refill coffee cups and take orders, a dance I’ve perfected over years of hiding in plain sight. My fingers absently trace the scar behind my ear—a tell Grandmaalways warned me about. But some mornings, I need the anchor of it, the reminder of why I’m here.

The diner’s rhythm is as familiar to me now as the cycle of moon phases Grandma taught me to follow. Mrs. Chen wants her eggs over easy, Mr. Baptiste takes his grits with extra butter, and the tourists... well, they’re as predictable as spring jasmine blooming. I catalog each patron with the same attention I once gave to sorting herbs: helpful, harmful, or merely taking up space.

As the early morning light gradually brightens, filtering through the slightly grimy windows like Spanish moss through cypress trees, the bell above the door chimes. The sound splits the air like night-blooming cereus suddenly snapping shut, and I look up, my hand freezing mid-pour as I see who has just walked in. The hot coffee overflows, scalding my fingers, but I barely notice. My blood runs cold, ice flooding my veins and settling in the pit of my stomach.

Alex.

Grandma’s voice echoes in my head:“Danger doesn’t always smell like death cap mushrooms, child. Sometimes it wears cologne and carries a briefcase.”

If only she’d warned me about the dangers that taste like honey and burn like oleander.

He looks different from the last time I saw him, five years ago. Different from that night I’d left him for dead, the taste of his kiss still bitter on my lips as nightshade bloomed in his veins. His once-lanky frame has filled out, the fabric of his expensive suit stretched taut across broad shoulders. A neatly trimmed beard now covers his jawline, the dark hair peppered with silver that wasn’t there when my fingers used to trace its edge. But those piercing green eyes are unmistakable, cutting through the diner’s warm atmosphere like shards of ice. Eyes I once drowned in, before I learned that some waters run poisonous.

Our gazes lock, and I see the moment of recognition flash across his face. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips, revealing teeth that seem too white, too sharp. A wolf in my den, wearing the face of a man I once loved. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a caged bird desperate for escape.

“Well, well,” he drawls, sliding onto a stool at the counter. The leather of his shoes squeaks against the metal footrest, a jarring note in the diner’s symphony. His voice still carries that hint of danger wrapped in velvet that used to make my skin tingle. “If it isn’t little Celeste Deveraux. Or should I say, Sarah’s avenging angel?”

The mention of Sarah’s name sends a jolt through me, memories flooding back unbidden.

Sarah’s laugh, bright and carefree.

The way her eyes crinkled when she smiled.

The hollow look in those same eyes as the life faded from them, her body broken and discarded like trash.

The way Alex had held me through those first dark nights, never letting on that he’d been part of it all. I shake my head, forcing the images away. I can’t afford to lose focus now.

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