Page 7 of Midnight at the Magnolia

BAYOU BEAT

Third victim in month discovered. Pattern emerging in deaths - all connected to dismissed court cases. Police refuse to confirm serial killer theory.

The Magnolia Dinersimmers in the early morning lull, a deceptive calm before the storm I know is brewing. The air hangs heavy with the scent of sizzling bacon and burnt coffee, a greasy perfume that clings to my skin like the guilt of a thousand sins.

I drag the rag across the counter for the thousandth time, the monotonous motion a stark contrast to the chaotic whirlwind of my thoughts.

Another day in purgatory. How many more until I’ve atoned for my sins?

The quiet shatters like a fallen angel’s halo at the chime of the bell. Agent Ethan strides in, looking as crisp and determined as he had last night, despite the ungodly hour. The sight of him sends a jolt of electricity through my body, a current ofdesire and danger that threatens to short-circuit my carefully constructed façade.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite federal bloodhound,” I purr, my voice dripping honey while venom courses through my veins. “Back so soon, darling? I’m starting to think you’ve got a fetish for grease-stained countertops and the sweet stench of desperation. Or perhaps it’s just the siren call of our beignets, luring you to a sugar-coated doom?”

Ethan’s eyes meet mine, molten amber that seems to see right through my mountain of lies. “What can I say? The coffee was too good to stay away.” His voice is gravel and honey, and it sends shivers down my spine like a lover’s caress. “Though I wouldn’t say no to one of those beignets you’re bragging about.”

I laugh, the sound as brittle as the masks I wear. “Careful what you wish for, sweetheart. Our beignets are like this city—sweet on the surface, but they might just rot you from the inside out.”

And I’m the most dangerous confection of all, a poison paradise wrapped in sugar and spice.

As Ethan settles at the counter, spreading his files out before him like a roadmap to my downfall, I busy myself with the coffee. My mind races, a thousand scenarios playing out, each more devastating than the last.

What delicious secrets do those files hold?

Are they the key to Gregory’s planned heist?

Or worse, have they uncovered the trail of bodies I’ve left in my wake, like breadcrumbs leading to my door?

I set the steaming mug in front of Ethan, careful not to let my gaze linger on the papers strewn across the counter. My fingers itch to snatch them, to devour every word, every clue, like a starving woman at a feast.

“Burning the midnight oil, I see,” I say, nodding towards the files. “You know what they say about all work and no play, Agent.It’ll turn you into one of those zombies stumbling down Bourbon Street at dawn, all glassy-eyed and hungry for brains... or is it just bourbon they’re after?”

Ethan sighs, running a hand through his hair. The gesture is oddly vulnerable, at odds with his hard-edged exterior. “These cases... they just don’t add up. Three deaths, all seemingly unconnected, but there’s something I’m missing. I can feel it in my gut.”

If only you knew, Ethan. The pieces fit perfectly—they just form a picture you’re not ready to see.

Guilt slithers through me, a venomous snake coiling around my heart. I know exactly what connects those deaths—me. I am the missing link, the shadow that ties it all together. I push the feeling aside, locking it away in the dark recesses of my mind where all my other delightful sins reside.

“Maybe you just need a fresh pair of eyes,” I suggest, leaning forward slightly. The counter digs into my hips, a physical reminder of the barrier between us. “I’ve seen my fair share of crazy shit in this diner. Might surprise you what I could bring to the table. After all, sweetness, sometimes the best view is from the gutter.”

Ethan looks up at me, his gaze so intense I feel stripped bare, my many personas falling away like discarded masks. For a moment, I think he might confide in me, might let me in. But then he shakes his head, the walls slamming back into place. “I appreciate the offer, Celeste, but this is sensitive information. I shouldn’t even have it out here, to be honest.”

As if the universe itself wants to punish him for his carelessness, his elbow knocks against the coffee mug. Time slows to a crawl as I watch the dark liquid spread across the counter, seeping into the papers like blood soaking into earth. How poetic, darling. Your secrets spilled like so many others in this godforsaken city.

“Fuck!” Ethan exclaims, jumping up. I’m already moving, adrenaline surging through my veins as I grab a towel and rush around the counter.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I soothe, my tone at odds with the frantic beating of my heart. “We can save them. Trust me, I’ve seen worse spills in my time. This ain’t nothing compared to Mardi Gras aftermath. You should see what comes out of people after a few too many Hurricanes. Now that’s a mess.”

As we work side by side, I can’t help but steal glances at the sodden papers. Names, dates, locations... my eyes devour every detail, committing them to memory with the desperation of a dying woman grasping at life.

James Royal, 52, found drowned in his locked office.

Jude Thibodeau, 34, aged decades overnight in his French Quarter apartment.

Marcus Dupree, 41, spontaneous combustion on Bourbon Street.

All three connected to the upcoming art gallery opening on St. Charles Avenue. All three with ties to the city’s underbelly that I know all too well.

Names, dates, locations... pieces of a puzzle I never meant anyone to solve. My little masterpiece, coming together stroke by bloody stroke.

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