Page 41 of Midnight at the Magnolia

More real. More dangerous.

“Remind me again why I’m here, Agent Blake?” she shouts over the deafening noise. Agent Blake—always so formal when she’s nervous. I’ve started tracking when she uses my title versus my name, another piece in the puzzle I can’t stop trying to solve.

“Because you know these waters better than anyone,” I grin, despite the seriousness of our mission. “And because I trust your instincts.” The words come out before I can stop them—too honest, too revealing.

She shoots me a look that makes my chest tight. There’s something in her eyes, something that looks like regret mixed with longing. The golden light of the setting sun accentuates the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the slight tremble in her lips that she tries to hide.

“Trust gets people killed, Ethan,” she says, my name soft and dangerous on her tongue. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Her words send a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cooling evening air. It should be a warning. It should set off every alarm bell in my FBI-trained mind. Instead, it just makes me want to prove her wrong.

To be the one person she can trust.

I’m so far off protocol with her that I can barely remember what protocol looks like.

As we navigate the winding waterways, the sun dips lower, painting the sky in vibrant oranges and pinks. The chorus of cicadas grows louder, a relentless drone that matches thethundering of my pulse whenever she moves closer to point out a landmark or marker.

Her fingers suddenly dig into my arm with surprising strength. “There! Cut the engine!”

I oblige, letting the boat drift towards a barely visible path leading into the dense foliage. The sudden silence is almost deafening, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the boat and my own treacherous heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.

The humid air closes around us like a wet blanket as we disembark. I watch her move, the way she navigates the treacherous terrain with practiced ease. Another detail that doesn’t fit with her waitress story. Another piece of evidence I should be logging instead of admiring.

“How did you spot that?” I ask, impressed and a little unnerved by her keen eye. She moves like someone who knows how to hunt, not like someone who serves pancakes for a living.

Celeste’s lips quirk into a half-smile, her eyes glinting with something that looks almost like amusement. I’ve started cataloging her smiles too—this one’s dangerous, a predator’s grin. “Let’s just say I’ve learned to keep my eyes open in places like this. You never know what you might find in the bayou. Could be treasure, could be trouble.”

Like you, I think. My own personal bayou mystery. Every instinct I possess screams that she’s trouble wrapped in an enigma. But God help me, I can’t seem to stay away.

We push through the undergrowth, my eyes drawn more to her movements than our surroundings. The vegetation is thick and unyielding, branches scratching at our arms and faces, but she navigates it like she was born to it. Every step she takes is deliberate, practiced. I find myself mimicking her movements without thinking, like a dance where she’s silently leading.

The light fades, but I can still make out the graceful line of her neck, the way her shoulders tense at each new sound. I should be focused on the mission, on Gregory’s crew, on the evidence we might find. Instead, I’m cataloguing new details about her to add to my growing obsession:

The way she steps heel-to-toe when she’s trying to move quietly.

How her hand keeps brushing her right hip, like she’s reaching for something that isn’t there.

The slight tilt of her head when she’s listening—more predator than prey.

After what feels like hours but is likely only twenty minutes, we stumble upon a small clearing. In the center stands a dilapidated shack, its wood gray with age, the boards warped and splintered. The encroaching darkness lends an eerie quality to the scene, but I’m more focused on how Celeste’s posture has changed—coiled tight, ready for action.

“Well, this is charming,” I quip, trying to lighten the mood, trying to see that half-smile I’ve grown addicted to. “I bet it’s not even on Airbnb.”

Celeste shoots me a look that’s part exasperation, part amusement. My heart shouldn’t skip at that combination, but it does. “Your humor needs work, Agent Blake.” There’s that title again—she’s on edge. “This ain’t no tourist trap.”

“Bingo,” I mutter, drawing my gun. The cold metal is reassuring in my sweaty palm, a stark reminder that this isn’t one of our late-night conversations at the diner. This is real. This is dangerous.

Her hand on my arm stops me, and the touch burns even through my shirt sleeve. “Wait. Look there.” Her breath tickles my ear, sending electricity down my spine. Every point of contact between us feels charged, significant.

She points to a barely visible tripwire stretched across the entrance, glinting dully in the last remnants of daylight. I feel a chill run down my spine, despite the oppressive heat. If she hadn’t spotted that...

“Good eye,” I say, studying her profile in the fading light. Another skill that doesn’t match her cover story. Another reason to investigate further. Another excuse to keep her close. “You’re full of surprises, Celeste.”

A ghost of a smile crosses her lips, this one tinged with sadness. “You have no idea, agent.”

No, I don’t. But God help me, I want to. I want to unravel every mystery she represents, even if it destroys us both.

We carefully make our way around the tripwire and into the shack. The interior is dark and musty, and I find myself hyperaware of her every movement in the confined space. The floorboards creak beneath us, and I notice how she distributes her weight—like someone trained to move silently. Another detail I file away, another red flag I choose to ignore.

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