Page 53 of Midnight at the Magnolia

I grab my keys, the metal biting into my palm, ignoring Reeves’ shouts behind me. The truth is a physical ache, a void I need to fill before it consumes me. Each step toward my car feels like another step toward destiny—or destruction.

“Don’t go alone,”Lauren’s memory pleads.“You never think straight around her.”

But I have to. Because despite everything—despite the evidence, despite my training, despite Lauren’s warnings echoing in my head—I need to hear it from her lips. I need to look into those eyes I’ve grown to love and know if it was all a lie.

The morning sun feels too bright, too harsh, like it’s illuminating every doubt and fear I’ve been trying to hide. I check my gun, an automatic gesture that feels different now. Will I be able to use it if I have to? Against her?

“You’ll do what needs to be done,”Lauren whispers. “You always do.”

God, I hope she’s wrong.

The drive to the diner seems to take an eternity, the morning traffic crawling at a snail’s pace. I catch myself cataloging every memory of her, like evidence in a case I never wanted to solve:

The way she always positions herself with clear sightlines to exits.

How her hands move with deadly grace, even doing mundane tasks.

The slight pause before she answers questions about her past.

Those nightmares she won’t talk about, that make her reach for weapons that aren’t there.

“Pattern recognition,”Lauren’s voice whispers.“It’s what makes you a good detective. Don’t stop seeing patterns now just because you don’t like what they show.”

By the time I arrive, the lunch rush is in full swing. The bell above the door chimes cheerfully as I enter, a discordant note in the bustling atmosphere. The smell of grilled onions and coffee hangs in the air, usually comforting but now turning my stomach. Everything familiar has become evidence, every memory a potential clue.

Celeste is behind the counter, her face lighting up when she sees me. The sight makes my heart ache, a physical pain in my chest. I catalogue her reaction with professional detachment even as my heart breaks:

The microsecond delay before her smile.

The slight tension in her shoulders.

The way her eyes check my hands, my stance, my expression.

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