Page 49 of Midnight at the Magnolia

15

ETHAN

CASE NOTES

Security footage analysis reveals killer’s military-grade training. Agent Blake notes similarity to black ops techniques. Chicago connection strengthens.

The evidence boardin my hotel room is a labyrinth of red strings and photographs, each connection bringing me closer to the truth—and further from peace of mind. My own personal web of obsession, growing more tangled with each new detail I add about her.Celeste.

Harsh fluorescent light casts an eerie glow over the images, making the faces seem ghostly and accusing. At the center of it all, a photo of the Magnolia Diner, its neon sign a blur of color against the night sky, and beside it, a picture of Celeste. I’ve spent hours studying this photo, cataloging details like a man possessed.

The way her fingers curl around the coffee pot—too practiced, too precise.

That slight shift in her stance when strangers enter—always ready, always aware.

The careful scan of the room that I first mistook for checking on customers.

Her smile, frozen in time, seems to mock me. Both the detective and the lover in me are transfixed by it, each seeing something different. One sees evidence, the other sees salvation.

As I stare at her photo, a memory washes over me, as vivid as if it were happening now. Celeste and I, laughing on a moonlit walk through the French Quarter, her hand warm in mine. I’d noticed even then how she kept to the shadows instinctively, how her laughter, though genuine, had an edge of calculation. The way she’d looked at me, eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper, something that made my heart race. Her lips, soft against mine, tasting of beignets and promise. The memory is a dagger to my heart, twisting with each passing second.

Minutes tick by, marked by the soft whirring of the air conditioner and the distant jazz notes floating up from the streets below. I find myself lost in thought, adding to my mental catalogue of Celeste-details that don’t add up.

The calluses on her hands that don’t match waitress work.

Her encyclopedic knowledge of local poisons during the bayou case.

The way she fights, moves, thinks like someone trained.

The sky outside my window gradually lightens, inky black giving way to soft pinks and oranges of dawn. I’ve been up all night, leaving Celeste asleep in the middle of the night. Now I am fueled by coffee and determination, my mind a whirlwind of suspicion and longing. The detective in me assembles evidence. The man in me tries to explain it away. Both of us are losing.

I trace a line connecting two photos, my finger lingering on her face. Every new piece of evidence feels like a betrayal, yet I keep collecting them, unable to stop myself. Like a drug I can’t quit, even knowing it might kill me.

Professional observation: Subject displays advanced tactical awareness and combat training.

Personal memory: The way she feels in my arms, soft and warm and real.

FBI Agent’s conclusion: She’s involved.

Lover’s denial: But God, let me be wrong.

Lauren’s voice whispers in my memory:“You always did get too close to your cases, baby.”

Even now, years later, I can hear the fond exasperation in her tone. She would have seen through Celeste immediately. Would have warned me about falling for someone I was investigating.

Just as I’m considering a quick shower to wash away the grime of sleeplessness, my phone buzzes, the vibration against the wooden desk jolting me from my thoughts. It’s Detective Reeves.

“Blake,” I answer, my voice rough from disuse.

“We’ve got movement,” Reeves says without preamble, his gruff voice crackling through the speaker. “Gregory’s crew is mobilizing. Looks like the heist is going down tonight.”

My heart races, a sudden surge of adrenaline chasing away the fatigue of my sleepless night. “Send me the details. I’m on my way.”

As I grab my jacket, the leather cool and smooth against my skin, my eyes fall on Celeste’s photo again. The woman I love. The woman I’m starting to suspect is at the center of everything. Her eyes seem to follow me, filled with secrets I can’t begin to unravel. I feel a pang in my chest, a mixture of love and betrayal that threatens to overwhelm me.

“You’re doing it again,”Lauren’s memory chides gently.“Seeing what you want to see instead of what’s there.”She was always better at separating emotion from evidence. I try to channel her objectivity now, cataloging the facts:

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