Page 72 of Midnight at the Magnolia

When I close my eyes, the world spins like petals in a storm. Ethan. Jazz. Lucas. Three different poisons, each deadly in their own way, all circling closer. When I open them, Claudette watches me with eyes that see too deep, too clear.

“Trouble follows you like a shadow, cher,” she murmurs, her voice smoke and whiskey and old magic. “But remember, even in the darkest night, stars still shine.”

I nod, grateful for wisdom that cuts like Grandma’s sharpest thorns. “I need some air,” I whisper, fleeing into the humid evening that wraps around me like a funeral shroud.

“Running from poison,”Grandma’s voice follows me,“just spreads it through your veins faster.”

The Mississippi calls like a siren’s song, dark and treacherous as the secrets I keep. Standing on its banks, I watch muddy water swirl and eddy, carrying away some sins while nurturing others in its depths. The scent of river mud and decay fills my lungs—New Orleans’ true perfume, underneath all the sugar and spice.

“Water remembers,”Grandma would say.“Every poison, every prayer, every promise broken.”

Ethan’s number burns against my skin like stinging nettle. My phone feels heavy as death in my hand as I stare at those digits that could undo everything I’ve become. What would I even say? Sorry I made you love a lie? Sorry I’m a monster wearing the face of the woman you trusted?

He doesn’t even know my real name. None of them do anymore.

Memory blooms like night jasmine—Ethan and I tangled in sheets, laughing as powdered sugar from shared beignets dusts our skin. His eyes so warm, so trusting. The taste of sweetness and love on his tongue. But the memory twists, darkens. Suddenly I see his blood on my hands, hear his screams pierce the night like thorns through flesh.

“Some gardens grow in blood,”Grandma’s voice whispers.“Some love only blooms in darkness.”

I blink away the vision, but the line between what was and what could be blurs more each day. Like morning glory and nightshade growing so tangled you can’t tell which vine will kill you.

My fingers move across the phone’s screen like they’re weaving a curse:

To Ethan:Tomorrow. Café du Monde. 9 AM.

To Lucas:Midnight Cypress. 11 PM.

Two seeds planted. Two poisons mixed. Two chances for everything to either bloom or die.

The city’s lights flicker to life around me, each one an eye watching, judging, waiting. The knife in my boot presses against my ankle like a lover’s promise—cold, sharp, faithful. A reminder of what I am, what I’ve done.

What I’ll do again.

“The deadliest flowers,”Grandma’s wisdom echoes,“are the ones that look most beautiful when they bloom.”

I touch the scar on my shoulder where Lucas’s stitches held me together while everything else fell apart. I remember Jazz’s warmth, his unconditional acceptance of whatever darkness grows in me. So many men, so many different kinds of love. Each one a different sort of poison.

Heaven help me—or maybe hell claim me—but I’ll face what comes with open eyes. For Sarah. For justice. For the twisted love that still burns in my chest whenever I think of Ethan. His smile, his laugh, his touch—they feed the fire of my madness like fuel on flames.

“Some gardens need to burn,”Grandma whispers,“so new seeds can grow.”

Back in the shop’s heavy darkness, I pull out a small leather-bound notebook stained with secrets and time. Grandma always said the most powerful herbs need recording, their effects, their dangers, their truths. As I write, my story bleeds onto the yellowed pages like nightshade juice, every lie and truth I’ve nurtured taking root.

Ethan,

By the time you read this, I’ll have worn a dozen different names, bloomed in a dozen different gardens. Each version of me a different kind of poison, a different shade of lie. But underneath them all, there’s a truth growing wild like kudzu, unstoppable and devastating:

I loved you.

That wasn’t a lie. Maybe it’s the only thing that wasn’t.

The words seem to crawl across the page like insects in Grandma’s garden, rearranging themselves when I’m not looking. Stories of Sarah, of Celeste, of the woman I was and the monster I’ve become. Tales of corruption growing deep in New Orleans’ soil, of men like Davis who think they’re above nature’s law.

“Truth’s like moonflower,”Grandma’s voice guides my hand.“Only blooms in darkness, only lasts till dawn.”

I write about Alex, about Lucas’s brilliant madness, about Jazz’s unwavering warmth. About choices made in blood and darkness. About a sister’s love turned to vengeance, about a city’s corruption that runs deeper than the Mississippi’s mud.

Every secret laid bare like plants pulled up by their roots.

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