Page 66 of Midnight at the Magnolia

My hand hovers over my gun. One movement could end this. Could keep her here, get answers, do my job.

“Sometimes love means letting go,”Lauren’s voice softens.“You taught me that too.”

I let her go.

Celeste moves like liquid lightning, disarming Alex and vanishing through the door before anyone can react. I could have stopped her. Should have stopped her.

Instead, I watch her disappear, taking both the USB drive and my heart with her.

“She took the fucking drive you imbecile!” Alex’s words barely register through the roar in my ears.

I stumble to the window, catching one last glimpse of her slipping into the crowd below. Even now, she moves with that deadly grace that should have been my first clue.

“You knew,”Lauren’s voice says gently.“You always knew. You just weren’t ready to see.”

I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool glass. I’ve betrayed my badge, my oath, everything I stand for. And for what? A woman who’s been lying to me since the day we met?

But even as doubt and guilt churn in my gut, I can’t regret my choice. Celeste is more than just a suspect now. She’s a mystery I need to solve, a truth I have to uncover.

I’ve crossed a line, the taste of betrayal bitter on my tongue, but her touch still burns on my skin. Some truths are worth damning yourself for.

“Just make sure this time,”Lauren’s voice fades like a ghost at sunrise,“you’re ready for the answers you find.”

18

CELESTE

NEW ORLEANS TIMES

Special Report: The Viper’s Garden of Justice. Complete timeline of kills reveals methodical dismantling of corruption network. Public support for vigilante grows despite police warnings.

My feet poundthe uneven cobblestones of the French Quarter, each step a prayer Grandma taught me—survive, adapt, endure. The cool night air burns in my lungs as I run, the thick, cloying scent of jasmine and decay filling my nostrils. New Orleans at night—beautiful and deadly as belladonna in bloom.

“The city protects its own,”Grandma’s voice whispers as I dart from shadow to shadow.“Let her darkness be your shield, child.”

The shadows seem to writhe and dance in the flickering gaslight, welcoming me like old friends. Behind me, sirens wail their haunting song, a sound that should mean danger but instead reminds me of Ethan. Everything reminds me of Ethan now—another poison I’ve chosen to swallow.

His face flashes in my mind, the look of betrayal in those warm brown eyes as I’d slipped away. The memory burns worse than any herb Grandma ever taught me to handle. I can almost feel the phantom touch of his hand on my cheek, smell the familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood and citrus, a combination that used to mean safety but now marks everything I’ve lost.

“Love’s the deadliest root in any garden,”Grandma would say.“It grows deep before you notice its thorns.”

As I turn a corner, jazz spills from a nearby club, the brassy notes tangling with the pounding of blood in my ears. Then a voice cuts through the music like a knife through morning glory, “NOPD! Freeze!”

“Some flowers bloom best under pressure,”Grandma’s wisdom echoes as I push harder, faster.

The crack of a gunshot splits the air, and suddenly my left shoulder explodes in white-hot pain. Like drinking fire flower tea, but a thousand times worse. I stumble, my hand instinctively going to the wound. When I pull it away, my fingers are slick with blood, warm and sticky against my skin.

“Even poison can be medicine if you survive it,”Grandma’s voice soothes as I grit my teeth against the pain. I can’t go to a hospital—they’ll be watching for that. There’s only one person I can turn to now, but first, I need to lose this cop.

The alley looms ahead, a gaping maw of darkness that promises either sanctuary or doom. Like nightshade berries—salvation or poison depending on how you use them. These streets are etched into my memory like the patterns of Grandma’s herb garden, every shadowy nook and hidden passage a different bloom to tend.

“Trust the path you’ve cultivated,”Grandma’s voice whispers as I dive deeper into the maze of back alleys.“The seeds you’ve planted will bloom when needed.”

My lungs burn with each breath, the wound in my shoulder throbbing in time with my racing heart. Hot blood seeps through my fingers as I press against it, the coppery scent making my head spin. Grandma taught me about blood—how it can be used in rituals, in healing, in marking endings and beginnings. Tonight, mine marks both.

I hear the cop’s heavy footfalls behind me, getting closer. His ragged breathing echoes off the narrow walls, but desperation lends me speed. I round a corner, shoes skidding on slick cobblestones, and duck into a passage barely wider than my shoulders.

“The smallest flower can split the strongest stone,”Grandma’s wisdom guides me as I squeeze through the tight space. The walls press in, cool brick scraping against my arms. Darkness wraps around me like a burial shroud, forcing me to rely on touch and memory.

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