Page 40 of Midnight at the Magnolia

As I stand there, the wind tugging at my clothes like ghostly fingers, I feel exposed.Vulnerable. It’s a feeling I haven’t allowed myself in years, and I hate it. I hate Alex for making me feel this way. For dragging me back into a past I’ve tried so hard to bury.

But beneath the anger and fear, there’s something else. A realization that sends a chill down my spine. If Alex didn’t show up here, where is he?

What’s his real plan?

My mind races, piecing together the events of the day. Alex’s appearance at the diner. His veiled threats. The way he looked at Ethan...

Ethan.

My blood runs cold as the pieces fall into place. This was never about me. It was about Ethan. About drawing him into this twisted game.

I spin on my heel, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I need to get to Ethan. Now. Before Alex can spring whatever trap he’s set.

As I race back towards the city, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the empty warehouses, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m running out of time. The web I’ve woven is unraveling, the threads of my carefully constructed life coming apart at the seams.

But I won’t let it all fall apart. Not now. Not when I’m so close to achieving everything I’ve worked for. I’ll find a way to saveEthan, to keep my secrets, to finish what I started all those years ago.

Because in the end, that’s who I am. I’m not just Celeste the waitress or Sarah’s avenging angel. I’m a survivor. A fighter. And I’ll be damned if I let Alex or anyone else take that away from me.

The city looms before me, a maze of shadows and secrets. Somewhere in those streets, Ethan is in danger. And I’m the only one who can save him. The irony isn’t lost on me—the vigilante turning hero.

But for Ethan, I’ll be whatever I need to be.

13

ETHAN

AGENT LOG

Personal observation: Killer demonstrates intimate understanding of both poison craft and local power structure. Possible family connection to original case?

The fileon my desk has been open for hours, but I’m not seeing the evidence photos anymore. Instead, my mind keeps drifting to the way Celeste’s hands move when she pours coffee—efficient, graceful, like a dancer with a deadly secret. I’ve started categorizing her movements, building a mental catalogue of everything that doesn’t quite add up about her.

The way she enters rooms—always scanning, always aware.

How she holds silverware—like someone taught her the proper way, not like a waitress.

The slight accent that sometimes slips when she’s tired—not quite New Orleans, something wilder, more bayou.

My phone sits next to the file, her number glowing on the screen. I’ve called her three times this week already—twice forthe case, once just to hear her voice. It’s becoming a habit, this need to involve her. To keep her close. Any excuse will do.

The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, a bloated orange orb that reminds me of the way light catches in her hair. Another detail I shouldn’t notice but can’t seem to stop collecting. The evidence of Gregory’s crew’s movements blurs before me, but one detail stands out crystal clear—coordinates leading deep into the bayou.

I grab my phone, dialing before I can talk myself out of it. Each ring makes my pulse quicken, like some lovesick teenager instead of a seasoned FBI agent.

“Magnolia Diner.” Her voice sends a thrill of anticipation through me.

“Celeste.” Her name comes out rougher than I intended, laden with everything I’m not saying. “I’ve got a lead. Gregory’s crew. A drop point in the bayou. I need your local knowledge on this one.”

There’s that pause—the one I’ve started timing in my head. Two-point-three seconds of silence that feel loaded with secrets. Then her voice, low and husky in a way that makes my mouth go dry. “I’m in. When and where?”

Relief and anticipation war in my gut. I shouldn’t want her anywhere near this case. Shouldn’t keep pulling her into dangerous situations just because I can’t seem to function properly unless she’s within arm’s reach. But here I am, doing it anyway.

God help me, I’d probably burn down half of New Orleans just to keep her looking at me the way she does when we’re chasing leads together.

Two hours later, our airboat roars to life, the engine’s vibration thrumming through my bones like a primal drumbeat. The acrid scent of gasoline mingles with the earthy aroma of decaying vegetation, but all I can focus on is Celeste’sproximity. She sits beside me, rigid and alert, her eyes scanning the shoreline with an intensity that sets off every investigative instinct I possess.

Wisps of her hair, damp with the humid air, cling to her neck. I’ve noticed she always wears it up at the diner, practical and neat. But here, with the wind whipping it wild, she looks more herself somehow.

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