Page 36 of Whispers in the Quarter

“Can’t or won’t?” I tease, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes. They’re dark with conflicting emotions, but there’s no denying the desire burning in them.

He shakes his head, trying to regain control. “I’m an agent. It’s my job to uphold the law.”

“And yet here you are, standing in the office of a known criminal mastermind.” I raise an eyebrow mockingly.

“Don’t toy with me, Lucas,” he growls, his grip tightening almost painfully.

I chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “Oh Saint, you’re so adorable when you try to resist me.”

He scowls at me half-heartedly before leaning in for another kiss. This time it’s slower, more intense as our tongues dance together in a battle for dominance. My hands roam over his body freely now, feeling every muscle twitch beneath my touch.

One hand snakes down to rest on his prominent bulge and he moans into the kiss. “This is wrong,” he pants between kisses.

“But it feels oh so right,” I purr seductively before releasing him.

I send him away shortly after, the vial tucked safely in his pocket like a seed of beautiful corruption. On my phone, I type out two messages:

To Jazz: The Saint is falling. Rather spectacularly.

To my Chimera: You should see what fascinating experiments I’ve been conducting. Though I do hope you don’t mind sharing. Some test subjects are too delicious to resist.

As I turn back to Perkins’ autopsy report, humming a slightly manic tune, I can’t help but feel pleased with the night’s work. After all, the most interesting chemical reactions are the ones that change all the elements involved.

And oh, what beautiful chaos we’re about to create together.

13

ETHAN

PERSONAL LETTER—NEVER SENT From: Lauren Blake To: Chief Inspector [REDACTED]

Something’s wrong at the port. The organization’s reach goes deeper than anyone suspects. Ethan’s getting close—too close. I fear what they’ll do when they realize what we’ve uncovered.

If anything happens to me, tell him the truth about [rest of letter water damaged and illegible]

Lauren’s photostares at me from the center of my investigation board, her smile a ghost in the late-night shadows of my apartment. My lips still burn from Lucas’s kiss, and the vial he gave me feels like a lead weight in my pocket. What would she think of me now?

“Well, isn’t this delightful,” I mutter, touching the mysterious bruise forming on my neck. “The righteous FBI agent making out with his possibly criminal friend in a morgue. Really keeping it professional, Blake.”

My hands shake slightly as I pour another bourbon. Lack of sleep? Too much coffee? Or maybe withdrawal from whatever moral high ground I used to stand on.

An anonymous text lights up my phone.

Unknown: Check the obituaries from ten years ago. Sarah Deveraux.

The search pulls up a small article from a local paper. Young woman murdered in the bayou. Sister disappeared shortly after. The attached photo makes my breath catch—not just because of her resemblance to Celeste, but because of what Lucas said earlier:“Sometimes the brightest souls cast the darkest shadows.”

I touch my lips again, remembering the manic gleam in his eyes as he pushed me toward my breaking point. The way he called meSaintwith equal parts mockery and desire. The intoxicating freedom of finally letting go…

“You’d hate what I’m becoming,” I tell Lauren’s photo, the bourbon burning less than my shame. “Or maybe...” I pause, Lucas’s words echoing in my head. “Maybe you’d understand better than anyone.”

The vial in my pocket seems to pulse with possibility. Lucas called it evolution in a bottle, but it feels more like permission. Permission to cross lines I’ve been toeing since Lauren died, since I first caught Celeste’s scent, since I let my ghost lead me into shadows.

My superior’s words from our earlier call echo:“You’re too close to this, Blake. Let it go before it becomes another Lauren situation.”

But he doesn’t understand. None of them do. Lauren’s death wasn’t random—I felt it then, just like I feel these connections now. Her case file sits in my bottom drawer, and I pull it out withtrembling hands. Crime scene photos I’ve memorized, witness statements that never quite added up, and that one grainy surveillance photo of a figure in the doorway that haunts my dreams.

“I should have protected you,” I whisper to Lauren’s image. “Should have seen it coming. Should have...”

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