Page 16 of Whispers in the Quarter

Looking at Lucas’s profile, his brilliant mind clearly racing with chemical formulas and future experiments, I realize we’ve become exactly thatnightshade and moonflowera toxic bloom of shared madness, perfectly paired in our beautiful darkness.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

6

JAZZ

POLICE SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT Location: Spotted Cat Music Club Time: 23:45

Officer: Subject J. Reynaud observed meeting with multiple persons of interest. Note: Music possibly being used as cover for information exchange.

Something different about him. Not just another CI. Watch closely.

Jazz Schedule found on scene:

Midnight in New Orleans (new composition)

St. James Infirmary Blues

Original piece (untitled) dedicated to “Melody”

The last notesof my trumpet hang in the air like smoke, sweet and lingering. The crowd at The Spotted Cat goes wild, their applause a syncopated rhythm against the backdrop of clinking glasses and midnight chatter. That’s when I spot her slipping in, moving through the crowd like a melody looking for its harmony. She’s changed clothes since earlier—the blonde wig and emerald gown replaced by her natural dark waves and asimple black dress. Trying to blend in, but some songs are too distinct to hide.

Dr. Gautier’s already at the bar, pretending he isn’t watching her like a man possessed. Interesting duet, those two. His chaos to her control, his madness to her method. Makes for one hell of an arrangement.

I take my bow, drinking in the moment like it’s the finest bourbon, but my eyes never leave the story playing out by the bar. The doc’s fingers tap an erratic rhythm on his glass—the man’s got timing like a drunk hummingbird. But the way he shifts his body when another patron steps too close to her? That movement’s pure predator, smooth as a minor scale.

Tommy, our bassist, gives me a nod. “Killed it tonight, man.”

“Just another day at the office,” I reply with a lazy grin, already moving through the crowd. Reading a room’s like reading sheet music—it’s all about patterns and spaces, knowing which notes matter and which ones are just noise.

“Well, well,” I drawl, sliding into the seat across from her. “My Melody graces us with her presence tonight.”

Something softens in her expression—just for a moment, but I catch it. That’s the thing about nicknames—they’re like musical signatures, telling you what key a person’s playing in. Lucas calls her his Chimera, all scientific obsession. Ethan’s got his own name for her, I’m sure.

But to me? She’ll always be Melody—complex, beautiful, and just a little bit dangerous.

“Can’t a girl just enjoy some good music, Jazz?” she asks, but there’s tension thrumming under her words like a tight bass string.

I lean back, taking her in. There’s something different tonight—a sharp note in her usual composition. Behind her, Lucas’s manic energy has shifted from merely possessive toactively protective. Whatever went down earlier has left them both playing in a darker key.

“Melody,” I say softly, “you’re hitting notes that spell trouble. What kind of song are we performing tonight?”

She glances at Lucas, a silent communication passing between them that reads like a complicated chord progression. “I might need an alibi for the past few hours.”

“Might?” I raise an eyebrow. “Sugar, you’re wound tighter than my trumpet strings, and the good doctor over there looks ready to dissect anyone who breathes wrong in your direction. Want to tell me what kind of jazz you two been playing?”

“Melody,” she repeats softly, like she’s testing the sound. “You know, between you and Lucas, I’m collecting quite a set of names.”

“That’s ‘cause you wear too many faces, sugar,” I lean in closer, letting my voice drop to that smoky register that usually makes women melt. “But music? Music never lies. And you’ve got a melody running through you that no disguise can hide.”

A faint blush colors her cheeks, and from the bar, I hear the distinct sound of glass cracking. Lucas’s grip on his tumbler has gone white-knuckled. Man’s about as subtle as a cymbal crash in a funeral march.

“Careful, Jazz,” she warns, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You might make someone jealous.”

I flash her my best stage smile, the one that’s gotten me into and out of more trouble than I care to count. “Darlin’, if I was trying to make him jealous, I’d have already asked you to dance.” I wink. “Though that offer stands. Nothing sayssolid alibilike cutting up the dance floor with New Orleans’ finest trumpet player.”

Her laugh is genuine this time, a pure note cutting through all her careful compositions. “You’re terrible.”

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