Page 67 of Midnight at the Magnolia

“NOPD! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

I bite back a hysterical laugh.

“Some warnings come too late,”Grandma would say,“like telling kudzu not to grow.”

The tunnel entrance waits ahead, hidden behind a dumpster that reeks of rotting fish and sour beer. The smell burns my nostrils, but Grandma always said the sweetest medicines often taste the worst. With a grunt of effort, I shove the dumpster aside just enough to slip behind it.

My fingers, slick with blood, scrabble against grimy brick until they find the loose stone. The keypad beneath glows faintly in the darkness like foxfire in the bayou. I punch in the code, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails.

“Trust your hands to remember what your mind tries to forget,”Grandma’s voice steadies me as I wait, heart pounding, for the mechanism to engage.

For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens. Then, with a soft hiss like a snake’s warning, a section of the wall slides open. I don’t hesitate—hesitation is death, another of Grandma’s lessons that’s served me well. I plunge into the darkness, the door sliding shut behind me with a sound like earth covering a grave.

The tunnel wraps around me, pitch black and smelling of damp earth and decay. Like Grandma’s root cellar, where she kept her most powerful medicines. I fumble for my flashlight with trembling fingers, its beam cutting through darkness thick as burial soil.

“Sometimes we have to go underground to grow,”Grandma’s wisdom follows me into the depths.“Like bulbs waiting for spring.”

I allow myself a moment, just one, leaning against the cool stone while my breath comes in ragged gasps. The adrenaline is starting to fade, making the pain in my shoulder sharper, more insistent. Like poison ivy’s slow burn becoming a wildfire.

I push off from the wall, each step echoing in the oppressive darkness. The tunnels branch and twist like veins beneath the city’s skin, a maze that would trap anyone who didn’t know its secrets. But Grandma taught me well—sometimes the most dangerous path is the safest, if you know how to walk it.

“Underground is where the real work happens,”her voice whispers as I navigate the darkness.“Where roots grow strong and secrets keep.”

The wound in my shoulder throbs with every heartbeat, hot blood still seeping between my fingers. The flashlight beam wavers as my hand shakes, casting dancing shadows on the damp stone walls. Each step takes me further from my past—from Ethan, from the lies, from everything I’ve built.

“Some gardens need to be burned,”Grandma’s wisdom echoes,“so new seeds can grow.”

Finally, after what feels like hours but must only be minutes, I reach the exit I need. A rusted metal door that groans like a dying thing when I push it open. The sound reverberates through the tunnel, making me wince.

The night air hits my face as I emerge, sweet as honeysuckle after the musty darkness below. I’m near Jazz’s place now, in a part of town where the music never really stops and secrets are currency everyone trades in.

“Choose your soil carefully,”Grandma would say.“Not everything that looks like sanctuary is safe to grow in.”

As I make my way through shadow-draped streets toward Jazz’s apartment, the sky begins to lighten imperceptibly. Dawn approaches like a slow-acting poison, inevitable and transforming. By the time I reach his door, my vision is swimming and my shirt is soaked through with blood.

I pound on the weathered wood, each impact sending fresh pain through my shoulder. The peeling paint feels rough under my palm, real in a way nothing else has since I fled the precinct. The rich, earthy scent of someone’s gumbo mingles with night jasmine, reminding me that even now, even here, life in New Orleans goes on.

“The strongest blooms,”Grandma’s voice reminds me as I wait,“are the ones that survive the storm.”

The door opens with a protesting creak, and there stands Jazz, sleep-rumpled but alert. His eyes widen as he takes in my appearance, concern replacing drowsiness in an instant.

“Celeste? What the hell happened to you?”

His voice wraps around me like a warm blanket, familiar and safe. But I can’t be Celeste anymore. That flower has withered on the vine, and something new must grow in its place.

“Long story,” I gasp, pushing past him into the apartment. The familiar scent of patchouli incense and old vinyl wraps around me, a different kind of sanctuary than Grandma’sgarden, but sanctuary nonetheless. Miles Davis plays softly in the background, his trumpet weeping for all the things I’ve lost tonight. “I need your help, Jazz.”

Jazz closes the door with a soft click, concern etched in the lines around his expressive dark eyes. “You’re bleeding,” he says, and beneath the worry in his voice, there’s that warmth he’s always had for me, the one I’ve never let myself fully accept. “Sit down before you fall down, cher.”

“Some flowers reach for every bit of sunlight,”Grandma’s voice whispers,“even when they know it might burn them.”

As Jazz moves to fetch his first aid kit, his movements have that natural rhythm he carries everywhere—part musician, part street-smart survivor. The worn leather couch embraces me as I sink into it, the coolness a balm against my feverish skin. Miles Davis continues his soulful lament in the background, and I catch Jazz humming along, a habit I’ve always found endearingly human.

He returns, kneeling beside me with a grace that speaks of more than just musical training. “It’s just a graze,” he says, examining the wound with gentle fingers. His touch lingers longer than necessary, warm against my skin. “But ma belle, you’re gonna tell me why you’re running from the cops, yeah?”

The endearment slips out naturally, like all his little signs of affection that I’ve been dodging for months. His cologne—spicy and warm like New Orleans nights—mingles with the metallic tang of blood.

“It’s... complicated,” I manage, watching his face as he works. The way his brow furrows in concentration, how his lips move slightly as he focuses—all details I’ve cataloged but tried not to think about too deeply. “Remember that corrupt official I told you about? The one connected to Sarah’s death? It goes deeper than we thought.”

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