Page 1 of Whispers in the Quarter

PROLOGUE

ETHAN

CASE FILE: #2187

HOMICIDE DIVISION - CHICAGO PD

RE: Lauren Blake (deceased)

DATE: [3 years ago]

My hands tremble slightly as I unpack the final box, the one I’ve been avoiding. The one markedLaurenin handwriting that’s too neat, too controlled—evidence of my attempt to contain grief in perfectly formed letters.

The moisture-heavy New Orleans air seeps through my open window, carrying with it the midnight chorus of Bourbon Street.

Jazz riffs from Preservation Hall mixing with the rattle of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestones, and beneath it all, the persistent thrum of secrets waiting to be uncovered.

I stand in the middle of my new apartment, surveying the chaos of half-unpacked boxes with a mix of amusement and resignation. My fingers brush against my collar, loosening it in the suffocating humidity—a nervous habit Lauren used to tease me about.

“Your tells are showing, Blake,”she’d say, straightening my tie with that knowing smirk.

God, I miss that smirk.

“Home sweet home,” I mutter, kicking aside a box labeledKitchen Crap. “Or should I say,Evidence Locker: Special Agent Edition?”

My attempt at humor falls flat in the empty room, echoing off walls that still smell of fresh paint and regret.

The scent of chicory coffee drifts up from Café du Monde three blocks over, mingling with the sweet decay that permeates the French Quarter—that unique perfume of rain-soaked magnolias and century-old brick. My new hunting ground, so different from Chicago’s stark urban grid where I lost her.

My hands are steadier now as I approach the blank wall before me—my personal canvas of conspiracy. I’ve done this enough times that the ritual is almost muscle memory. Thumbtacks, red string, surveillance photos.

But this time feels different. This time, the connections I’m mapping aren’t just about Celeste Deveraux and her vanishing act.

They’re about Lauren.My Lauren.

I carefully remove her photo from the box. It’s not her official FBI portrait—I can’t bear to look at that one anymore. This is Lauren at Jackson Square, laughing at some terrible joke I’d made about the street performers, her dark hair catching the sunlight, her badge hidden beneath her jacket.

Three days before therandomcrossfire that took her from me.

Three days before everything changed.

“Don’t worry, darling,” I say, centering her photo on the wall. My voice sounds rougher than I intend. “I promise this decorator’s nightmare isn’t permanent. Just until I figure out who’s been naughty in the Big Easy.”

The familiar ache in my chest intensifies as I step back, my FBI training kicking in as I catalog the evidence beforeme. Three months of surveillance on the Magnolia Diner. Background checks on every regular customer. Financial records that don’t quite add up. And at the center of it all, Celeste Deveraux—a waitress with too many skills, too many secrets, and a disappearing act that coincided with a string of unexplained deaths.

Beneath her photo, I’ve pinned the ballistics report from Lauren’s case. The one that never sat right with me. The one that claimed random gang violence, despite the surgical precision of the shots. Despite the missing evidence. Despite everything my gut has been screaming for years.

My phone buzzes, interrupting my grim analysis.

Unknown number. My pulse quickens—years of FBI training haven’t dulled my instincts for when something’s about to break. The message that pops up makes my blood run cold.

Unknown: The crossfire wasn’t random, Blake. Look deeper. Check the Decatur Street surveillance from that night.

Unknown: Midnight Cypress. 11 PM.

“Well, isn’t that delightfully specific,” I mutter, but my hands are already moving to my laptop, pulling up my encrypted files. That night in Chicago flashes before my eyes with the clarity of professional trauma—the crisp autumn air, Lauren’s laugh as we left the restaurant, the strange stillness that preceded the chaos. The way she’d sensed something wrong seconds before the first shot, her hand reaching for her weapon. Not the reactions of someone caught in random crossfire.

I click through surveillance photos from the scene, ones I’ve studied a thousand times. But now I’m looking with new eyes, searching not for gang members but for... there. A figure in the background, almost hidden in the shadows of a doorway.The same sharp jaw, the same predator’s stillness I’d glimpsed earlier today near Jackson Square.

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