Page 27 of Whispers in the Quarter

“I don’t?—”

“Don’t lie to your doctor, Ethan,” I scold playfully. “These readings suggest otherwise. Besides,” I spin away, my lab coat flaring dramatically, “I’ve seen your private case files. The ones you keep at home? Quite the collection of unsolved crimes. Almost like you’re... keeping score.”

His sharp intake of breath is everything. “You broke into my apartment?”

“Details, details,” I wave dismissively. “The point is, saint, you’re not as clean as you pretend to be. And isn’t that just...” I turn back, grinning manically, “exciting?”

“You’re trying to manipulate me,” he says, but he still hasn’t moved away.

I laugh, the sound bouncing off my lab’s sterile walls. “Obviously! And you’re letting me, which is far more interesting.” I move back into his space, bold now. “Your pulse hasn’t slowed, by the way. Quite the opposite.”

“Lucas, whatever you’re involved in?—”

“We’re all involved now, saint.” I cut him off with a finger to his lips. “You, me, our mysterious vigilante... we’re all dancing the same beautiful dance. The only question is,” I replace my finger with a brief, feather-light kiss to his neck, “are you ready to admit it?”

I step back before he can respond, enjoying the way his composure fractures. “Think about it, my dear friend. Think about what we could accomplish together. All that righteous fury of yours, properly directed...” I sigh dreamily. “The experiments alone would be magnificent.”

“You’re absolutely insane,” he says, but there’s something like wonder in his voice.

“And you’re absolutely smitten with our little vigilante,” I counter. “Don’t worry, saint. Some of us are good at sharing.”

His eyes widen at the implication, and oh, his pulse is practically singing now. “I should go,” he says finally, running a shaky hand through his hair.

“Of course you should,” I agree, opening the lab door with a flourish. “Run back to your rules and regulations. But when you’re lying awake tonight, thinking about justice and chemistry and all the delicious possibilities...” I press something into his hand—a small vial of clear liquid. “Remember this conversation.”

“What is it?” he asks.

My grin turns feral. “Evolution in a bottle, saint. Use it wisely.”

As he leaves, his steps less steady than when he arrived, he pauses and sets the vial back on my desk.

How very utterly disappointing.

I turn back to my experiments with renewed enthusiasm. The game has changed, become infinitely more interesting. My Chimera will be pleased—or possibly murderous. Either way, the results should be fascinating to observe.

“Sweet dreams, Agent Blake,” I murmur to my empty lab. “Let’s see what kind of monster you become.”

10

EVANGELINE

PORT AUTHORITY INCIDENT REPORT Location: Warehouse 23 Incident Type: Suspected Homicide

Body discovered matches MO of previous “natural causes” deaths. Victim (H. Perkins) connected to multiple shell companies owned by [REDACTED].

Note: Medical examiner L. Gautier requesting exclusive access to autopsy. Request approved by Councilman Davis.

“Power liesin what they don’t expect, child. A pretty face, a soft smile – these are weapons sharper than any blade.”Grandmother’s voice echoes in my mind as I study my reflection in the Gardenia Club’s gilded mirrors.

A crystal vase of winter jasmine catches my eye, and for a moment, I’m lost in memories of afternoons in Grandmother’s greenhouse. Before everything changed, I’d wanted to follow in her footsteps—not just with herbs and healing, but with the science behind it all. I’d been accepted to LSU’s botany program the week Celeste died. The acceptance letter still lives in a box under my bed, unopened dreams yellowing with age.

The woman staring back at me now is a stranger—platinum blonde bob sharp as a knife’s edge, emerald gown that whispers old money and darker promises. Caroline Maxwell, recently divorced socialite with more money than sense and a weakness for powerful men. Another mask, another dance, another step closer to justice.

I touch the delicate jasmine blooms, remembering how I used to press flowers between the pages of my biology textbooks. Sarah Deveraux had loved winter best, dreamed of seeing real snow someday. She’d started planning a trip to Vermont for Christmas break, saving tips from her waitressing job in a jar labeled “Snow Fund.”

That jar still sits on my shelf, half-full of wrinkled bills. Sometimes I wonder if Sarah’s still in there too, buried under all these masks I wear. The girl who loved the crack of autumn leaves under her feet, who spent hours sketching the molecular structures of healing herbs, who wanted nothing more than to understand the science behind her grandmother’s magic.

But that girl feels as foreign to me now as this platinum wig and designer dress.

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