Page 30 of Whispers in the Quarter

“Hey, sugar,” his voice flows through the speaker, smooth as aged whiskey. “You ain’t been answering my texts.”

“I’m fine, Jazz.” The lie tastes bitter, especially here in this kitchen where Grandmother taught us never to waste words on untruths. “Just thinking.”

“Melody...” He only uses that nickname when he’s worried. Through the window, I can see him shift on the porch swing, moonlight catching his profile. “I know you better than that. Your voice has that edge to it, like when you’re carrying something too heavy.”

A laugh escapes me, harsh and broken. My eyes drift to Grandmother’s workbench, where my old notebooks still sit—pages of molecular diagrams and botanical sketches yellowing with age. “Maybe I am.”

“Let me help. Whatever it is?—”

“You can’t help with this.” I cut him off, gentler than I mean to. “Some burdens aren’t meant to be shared.” Like how I killed not just my sister’s murderers, but also the girl who used to sit at that workbench, dreaming of healing instead of hurting.

“That’s bull and you know it.” His voice hardens with rare anger. “We all got shadows, sugar. Question is, do you trust me enough to show me yours?”

Before I can answer, my laptop pings with a breaking news alert. My breath catches as I read the headline: “Prominent Financial Advisor Found Dead at Exclusive Club.”

“I’ve got to go,” I tell Jazz, my voice steady despite my racing heart. “Get some sleep.”

“Eva—”

I end the call, my hands shaking as I scroll through the article. No mention of foul play yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I need to be ready.

Moving to my old room, I pull out fresh clothes. As I reach for my jacket, a familiar voice freezes me in place.

“Sloppy work, little shadow.”

I whirl around. Alex leans against my childhood desk, exactly as I remember him—sharp suit, calculating eyes, cruel smile. But he can’t be here. He’s not real.

“Getting emotional over the target?”His voice drips with disappointment.“Look at you, hiding in your grandmother’s house like the scared little girl I found all those years ago.”

“You’re not here.” I grip the edge of my old dresser, where pressed flowers still sit under glass—preserved by Sarah’s careful hands. “You’re just in my head.”

“Of course I am.”He pushes off the desk, moving closer.“I’m always in your head. I made you what you are. Turned all that wasted potential into something useful.”

“No.” My voice cracks. “I’m not what you made me. I’m doing this for justice, not revenge.”

“Are you?”His laugh echoes in my skull.“Then why are you surrounded by relics of who you used to be? Face it, shadow—you’re becoming exactly what I trained you to be. And you’re losing yourself in the process.”

“Stop it!” I slam my fist into the mirror, shattering both the glass and the hallucination. Blood drips from my knuckles onto an old college brochure, staining LSU’s pristine science labs crimson.

My phone buzzes again.

Lucas: “Time’s ticking, Chimera.”

I stare at my fractured reflection in the broken mirror, each shard showing a different version of me. Sarah, the budding scientist. Celeste, the avenging angel. Evangeline, the woman trying not to drown in the spaces between. Behind me, shadows of dried herbs sway like hanged men.

A soft knock at the door. “Melody?” Jazz’s voice, gentle but firm. “I heard breaking glass.”

“Don’t—” But he’s already entering, taking in the scene with those observant eyes of his. The broken mirror, my bleeding hand, the scattered remnants of Sarah Deveraux’s dreams across the floor.

“Oh, sugar,” he breathes, moving toward me with the same care he uses when handling his beloved trumpet. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” I try to pull away, but he catches my wrist with gentle insistence.

“You’re about as fine as a broken symphony.” He guides me to sit on my childhood bed, retrieving Grandmother’s first aid kit from its familiar spot under the sink. “Want to tell me who you were fighting with? Besides yourself?”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up. “Would you believe my old mentor’s ghost?”

“In this house?” Jazz glances at the herbs hanging overhead, the walls that have absorbed generations of secrets. “I’d believejust about anything.” He starts cleaning my cuts with practiced ease. “Though something tells me it ain’t just ghosts haunting you tonight.”

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