Page 23 of Whispers in the Quarter

The words should horrify me. The sixteen-year-old girl I was a year ago would have recoiled. But that girl died the night she found her sister’s body, when she made the choice to step into her sister’s life rather than face her own broken one.

“I’m ready,” I say, and I mean it. The grief that’s been choking me since Celeste’s death crystallizes into something harder, something useful. Alex sees it happen—the transformation written in my eyes—and his smile widens.

“There she is,” he murmurs, almost tenderly. “There’s my perfect little shadow.”

The scene shifts, fragments of memories flashing by in a dizzying blur. Alex teaching me to mix poisons from seemingly harmless plants, his methods so different from Grandmother’s gentle lessons about healing. The weight of a gun in my hand, the kickback jarring my bones as I fire again and again at human-shaped targets. The sickening crunch of bones breaking beneath my fists.

Each lesson is a step further from Sarah, a step closer to becoming the ghost of Celeste. But not really Celeste—she was too bright, too pure for this darkness. I’m becoming something else entirely. A shadow of a shadow, a ghost of a ghost.

“Remember, Sarah,” Alex’s voice echoes in my mind, using my real name like a weapon, a reminder of who I’m choosing not to be, “in this world, it’s kill or be killed. Hesitation means death.”

Just like it meant death for Celeste. Sweet, strong Celeste who never saw the darkness coming until it was too late.

I throw myself into the training with a fervor that sometimes startles even Alex. Every bruise, every ache, every drop of blood is an offering to my sister’s memory. I’ll become whatever I need to be—weapon, ghost, shadow—if it means getting justice for her.

But in quiet moments, in the dark of night when even Alex’s voice can’t reach me, I wonder what Celeste would think of what I’m becoming. Would she recognize the sister she loved in this creature of shadow and vengeance?

The thought haunts me, but not enough to stop. Nothing will stop me now. Not guilt, not fear, not even Celeste’s memory.

A dimly lit warehouse comes into focus, the memory sharp as broken glass. A man bound to a chair, fear etched on his face. Alex standing behind me, his presence a constant pressure. I’m seventeen now, hardened by a year of training, but my hands still shake.

“Prove your loyalty, little shadow,” he whispers. “Prove you have what it takes to survive in this world.”

The man in the chair pleads, his words a jumbled mess of terror and desperation. “Please, I have a daughter...”

Daughter. The word pierces my armor. I think of Celeste, of all the daughters who’ve lost sisters, all the sisters who’ve lost themselves. I look to Alex, seeking... what? Guidance? Mercy? The father I never had?

“He’s guilty,” Alex says, his voice cold and certain. “A plague on this city. Removing him is an act of justice.” His hand squeezes my shoulder, and I lean into the touch despite myself.“Remember what they did to your sister, Sarah. Remember why we’re here.”

The garrote feels heavy in my hands, the wire catching the dim light like a lover’s promise. One quick motion, just like Alex taught me. The man’s eyes widen in shock, and for a moment, they’re Celeste’s eyes, full of confusion and betrayal. His fingers claw uselessly at his throat as the life drains from him.

I vomit afterward, hiding my weakness in a dark corner of the warehouse. But Alex’s pride is palpable, his approval a drug more potent than any chemical he’s taught me to use. “Well done, Sarah,” he says, using my real name like a reward. “You’re ready now.”

That night, I dream of Celeste. We’re children again, playing in the bayou, our laughter echoing across the water. But when she turns to me, her eyes are empty, her throat bearing the mark of wire.

“What have you become, little sister?” she asks, but her voice is Alex’s, smooth and satisfied.

I wake up screaming, sheets tangled around me like Spanish moss. Alex is there—he’s always there now, my mentor, my maker, my monster.

“Hush, little shadow,” he soothes, stroking my hair as I shake apart. “The first one is always the hardest. But you did so well. You’re becoming exactly what you need to be.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, hating how young my voice sounds, how much I still need his approval.

His smile gleams in the darkness. “Beautiful. Deadly. Perfect.” His fingers tighten in my hair, just shy of painful. “My masterpiece.”

I lean into his touch, let him reshape me with praise and pain and purpose. It’s easier than facing the truth—that Sarah died in the bayou with Celeste, and whatever I’m becoming isn’t quite human anymore.

Days blur into weeks into months. Each kill gets easier, each new identity fits more smoothly. Alex molds me like clay, teaching me to be whoever I need to be to get close to a target. Socialite, student, lover—all masks that hide the shadow underneath.

“You’re a natural,” he tells me after I successfully infiltrate a charity gala, my first solo mission. “The way you adapt, the way you become whoever they need you to be... it’s like watching art come to life.”

I preen under his praise, ignoring the voice in my head that sounds like Celeste, begging me to remember who I really am. But who am I, really? Sarah is dead. Celeste is dead. I am only what Alex has made me—a shadow that wears faces like masks, a ghost that deals in death.

The training continues, each lesson taking me further from the girl I was. Alex teaches me about poisons, about seduction, about the million ways to make death look natural. I learn to move like smoke, to smile like sunshine, to kill like winter—cold and inevitable.

And through it all, I tell myself it’s for Celeste. For justice. For vengeance.

But in my darkest moments, when even Alex’s approval can’t warm the void inside me, I wonder if I’ve become exactly what killed my sister—another monster in a city full of shadows.

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