Page 28 of Whispers in the Quarter

The Gardenia Club lives up to its reputation. Crystal chandeliers cast honeyed light across marble floors, transforming New Orleans’ elite into glittering mannequins. The air is thick with perfume, privilege, and secrets. My hunting ground for the evening.

My target, Harold Perkins, stands near the bar. The organization’s financial mastermind, the man whose signature appears on documents that authorizedcleaning crewsin the bayou. His perfectly tailored suit can’t hide the slight tremor in his hand as he argues with someone I don’t recognize—a tall man with silver hair and an air of authority that makes my instincts buzz with warning.

I adjust my wig, feeling the reassuring press of the poisoned ring against my finger. Alex’s voice whispers from the past:“Become the person they expect to see, little shadow. Their expectations are their weakness.”

But tonight, something feels different. The usual cold focus that accompanies my hunts is replaced by an unsettling hum of questions I’ve never thought to ask. Questions not just about Celeste’s death, but about Sarah’slife—the one I packed away with those college acceptance letters and snow-fund dreams.

Moving through the crowd feels like a dance I’ve performed too many times. Each step calculated, each smile measured. But tonight, my mind keeps drifting to other dances—spinning through fallen leaves with Celeste, both of us laughing as we tried to catch them. The way snow must dance as it falls, a sight I still haven’t seen.

“Champagne, darling?” A waiter materializes beside me.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” I take a glass, letting my acquired Southern drawl drip like honey. The champagne bubbles remind me of the way I used to mix solutions in chemistry class, watching reactions spark and fizz. I’d been good at it—really good. My teacher had written recommendations for research programs, talked about scholarships and futures I never got to explore.

The silver-haired man stalks away from Perkins, leaving him visibly shaken. Perfect timing. I make my way to the bar, deliberately catching Perkins’ eye as I perch on a barstool. He takes the bait almost immediately, just like the garden snakes I used to catch and release as a child, much to Grandmother’s amusement.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Harold Perkins.”

“Caroline Maxwell.” I extend my hand, noting how his gaze lingers on the dramatic slit of my emerald gown. Thecolor reminds me of the herb garden in spring, of dreams about greenhouses and research labs, of a future where Sarah Deveraux would have helped people heal instead of hunting those who hurt them.

“Indeed it is.” He signals the bartender. “Allow me to buy you a proper drink. That champagne looks rather lonely.”

I laugh, the sound practiced and hollow—nothing like the snorting giggles Celeste used to tease me about. “Careful, Mr. Perkins. A girl might think you have ulterior motives.”

A security guard passes too close, his eyes narrowing slightly. I force myself to remain relaxed, though my pulse quickens. The ring on my right hand holds enough poison to drop a man in seconds. Once, I would have used these same plants to heal. Grandmother had taught us both sides of nature’s gifts—life and death growing from the same soil. I’d chosen which path to nurture.

“Please, call me Harold.” Perkins leans closer, lowering his voice. “And perhaps I do have ulterior motives. It’s been a rather trying evening—I could use some... pleasant company.”

The silver-haired man reappears at the edge of my vision. I need to move this along, but something about him tugs at a memory I can’t quite grasp. One of Grandmother’s lessons maybe—about how certain plants can trigger memories long buried. I used to be fascinated by the neuroscience behind it, had started a research paper on memory and molecular structures that now sits unfinished in a drawer with Sarah’s other abandoned dreams.

“Well then, Harold,” I purr, pushing away thoughts of who I used to be, “why don’t we find somewhere more private to discuss those motives?”

He leads me down a corridor lined with old photographs of New Orleans’ historic houses. My heels click against hardwood floors as we climb a curved staircase to the club’s private rooms.Each step feels like a countdown—or maybe like climbing the stairs to my old high school lab, where I’d spend lunch breaks conducting extra experiments, dreaming of breakthroughs and Nobel prizes.

“You know,” Perkins says as he unlocks a door, “you remind me of someone. Years ago, there was this girl...”

I freeze. The tone in his voice sends ice down my spine.

“Sarah Deveraux,” he continues, turning to face me. “Such a tragic story. She had the same way of tilting her head when she smiled.” His eyes harden. “The same way you’re tilting yours right now.”

The world narrows to a pinpoint. And in this moment, I realize with stunning clarity—he doesn’t see Celeste in me at all. He sees Sarah. The real Sarah. The one I killed as surely as they killed my sister.

“How interesting.” My voice remains steady as I step into the room, but inside, everything is shifting. “Tell me more about this Sarah.”

He follows me in, closing the door. “I think you know exactly who Sarah Deveraux was.” His hand moves toward his jacket. “The question is, who are you?”

Who am I? The question echoes like a gunshot. I’m the girl who wanted to unlock nature’s secrets, who dreamed of combining Grandmother’s traditional knowledge with modern science. I’m the teenager who spent hours calculating the exact altitude where snow forms, planning trips I’ll never take. I’m Sarah, who died the night Celeste did, who became a shadow of her sister instead of living her own life.

But right now, I’m what Alex made me—a weapon.

I don’t give him time to reach whatever he’s going for. The ring connects with his neck as I surge forward, using his own momentum against him. His eyes widen in shock as the poisonenters his system—a poison I once understood purely for its molecular beauty, not its capacity to kill.

“I’m the ghost of all the girls you helped destroy,” I whisper as he stumbles. “The ones who disappeared into the bayou. The ones whose deaths you helped cover up with your money and your influence.”

He tries to speak, but his muscles are already failing. I catch him before he falls, guiding his body to an armchair. The movement is practiced, clinical—but for the first time, I feel the ghost of Sarah’s scientific mind analyzing the process. Watching the poison’s progression with a detached fascination that has nothing to do with vengeance and everything to do with pure biochemistry.

“Goodbye, Harold,” I say softly, adjusting his collar to hide the tiny puncture mark. “Give my regards to the devil.”

In minutes, it will look like a heart attack—just another wealthy man who pushed himself too hard. The perfect chemical reaction. Once, I would have been excited to understand the molecular dance happening in his cells. Now I just use it to kill.

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