Page 5 of Midnight at the Magnolia

“You’re new in town,” she says. It isn’t a question. Her gaze catches on my shoulder holster, barely visible under my jacket. Most civilians miss it. She doesn’t.

I clear my throat, fighting the urge to loosen my tie. “That obvious? And here I thought I was blending in with mytourist who’s lost everything at the casinolook.”

She smiles, a slow, dangerous curve of her plump lips that sends electricity through my veins. “We don’t get many suits in here this late. Especially not ones who look like they’re carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.” She leans in slightly, close enough that I catch a hint of something floral, at odds with the diner’s greasy atmosphere. “I’m Celeste.”

“Ethan,” I reply, taking a sip of coffee to steady myself. It’s surprisingly good, rich with chicory. “I’m here on business. You know, the kind that involves cheap motels and endless paperwork. Living the dream.”

Her eyebrow arches, a challenge in her gaze. Beneath the southern charm, I catch something sharper. More calculating. “What kind of business brings a man like you to our humble diner at this hour?”

I hesitate, professional discretion warring with instinct.

Lauren’s voice echoes in my memory.Sometimes the best way to catch a predator is to show a little blood.

“I’m investigating a series of unusual deaths,” I say carefully, watching her reaction. “Just your average, run-of-the-mill cases of impossible drownings, spontaneous mummification, and human combustion. You know, a typical Tuesday in New Orleans.”

Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of something—recognition? Fear?—dancing across her face before disappearing behind practiced indifference. Her hand touches her wrist, an unconscious tell. “Unusual indeed.”

“Let’s just say they don’t look like accidents,” I reply, studying her closely. My voice drops lower. “And word on the street is that this diner might be ground zero for some ofthe city’s less-than-legal activities. But I’m sure that’s just idle gossip, right?”

As I speak, I watch her face, searching for any flicker of recognition, any tell that might betray knowledge. The air between us crackles with tension, equal parts attraction and danger.

Celeste’s laugh is low and husky, but her fingers tap the counter in a pattern I recognize from firearms training. One, two, pause. Three, four, pause. She’s counting exits.

“Well, Agent Ethan, you’ve certainly come to the right place for information. This diner sees all kinds. The good, the bad, and the deliciously wicked.” She winks, but her body language shifts—subtle increase in distance, weight on the balls of her feet. Ready to move if needed. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you much. I just pour the coffee and ignore the whispers. It’s better for my health that way.”

“Ah, the old see no evil, hear no evil approach. Classic.” I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But between you and me, Celeste, I think you see and hear a lot more than you’re letting on. And I have a feeling you might be the most interesting puzzle in this whole damn city.”

The door chimes again. A disheveled man stumbles in, alcohol wafting off him like cheap cologne. My focus splits—threat assessment becomes automatic after enough field work. Drunk, nervous, right hand keeps twitching toward his jacket pocket. Armed, probably amateur hour.

“Evening, Gregory,” Celeste calls out, her tone noticeably cooler. I note the shift in her stance—subtle but telling. She’s positioned herself for quick movement, maintaining clear sightlines to both exits. “The usual?”

Gregory nods, slumping onto a stool a few seats down. As Celeste busies herself with his order, I strain to catch theirconversation, professional curiosity mixing with something that feels uncomfortably like jealousy.

“...big plans, sweetheart,” Gregory slurs, his voice low and urgent. “Gonna make a name for myself in this town.”

Celeste laughs, the sound somehow both warm and dismissive. Her eyes flick to me for a fraction of a second. “You say that every week, Gregory. What makes this time different?”

I watch as Gregory leans in closer, the stench of cheap whiskey reaching me even from several seats away. Celeste maintains a careful distance that speaks volumes. Smart girl. But it’s more than caution—there’s calculation in her movements.

“This time, I’ve got inside information,” Gregory whispers, though not quietly enough. “The art gallery on St. Charles. Opening night. It’s gonna be huge.”

My ears perk up, adrenaline surging. An art heist? Could it connect to the deaths I’m investigating?

Lauren’s voice whispers in my head:Follow the money, follow the bodies. They always lead to the same place.

I glance at Celeste, gauging her reaction. Her face remains impassive, but I catch the micro-expressions—a tightening around her eyes, fingers that pause a fraction too long when pouring coffee. Tells that most would miss, but I’ve built a career on reading people’s shadows.

“Sounds dangerous,” she murmurs, voice barely audible over the hum of the ancient refrigerator.

Gregory grins, revealing yellowed teeth. “Danger’s my middle name, sweetheart. You want in? Could use a pretty face like yours to distract the guards.”

For a moment, something dark and deadly flashes across Celeste’s features—a predator’s look that raises every warning flag in my investigator’s handbook. But then she laughs, lightand carefree, a perfect act I never would have questioned if I hadn’t seen that momentary slip.

“I think I’ll stick to pouring coffee, thanks. Less chance of breaking a nail.”

As Gregory turns to his greasy eggs, Celeste makes her way back to me. Our eyes meet, and electricity crackles between us, a connection that goes beyond mere attraction. There’s recognition there—one hunter acknowledging another.

“Learn anything interesting?” she asks, challenge in her voice. Her fingers brush mine as she tops off my coffee, the brief contact setting my skin ablaze.

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