Page 4 of Whispers in the Quarter

“Things are changing, Evangeline. Or should I say, Sarah?” His voice drops to a whisper, fevered and intense. “Or perhaps... Celeste? So many names, so many deaths, each one a perfect little puzzle box waiting to be dissected.”

The name hits me like a physical blow, but before I can respond, Lucas is already moving again, circling me like an excited shark that’s scented blood in the water. His lab coat swishes with the movement, and I catch a glimpse of what looks suspiciously like autopsy notes scribbled on the inside.

“But that’s what makes you so deliciously complex,” he continues, his words tumbling out in that rapid-fire way that suggests he’s running on coffee and scientific obsession. “Most killers, they’re tediously predictable. Blunt force trauma, gunshots, the occasional creative poisoning.” He waves his hand dismissively. “But you... you’re an artist. The way you manipulate local flora into such elegant solutions. Did you know your lastclienthad the most fascinating cellular degradation patterns I’ve ever seen?”

I step back, but he follows, his eyes fever-bright. “Lucas, this isn’t?—”

“The organization is making moves,” he interrupts, suddenly laser-focused. “Big ones. Beautiful ones. The kind that make my morgue positively sing with new data.” He lets out a small, unsettling giggle. “Three prominent families, all dead in the past month. Natural causes, officially. But oh, the stories their tissues tell! The whispers of alkaloids dancing through their bloodstreams. Poetry written in cellular death.”

My mind races. “What kind of moves?” I ask, careful to keep my voice steady even as my pulse quickens.

Lucas’s grin turns feral. “The kind that reshape empires!” He’s practically bouncing now, nervous energy radiating off him in waves. “Someone’s playing a long game, darling. Someone who knows their biochemistry almost as well as you do.” He leans in, conspiratorially. “They’re looking for a ghost named Celeste. Quite determined about it, really. Offering the kind of incentives that make even the most ethical medical professionals consider... creative interpretations of their Hippocratic oath.”

I force myself not to react to my sister’s name, my stolen identity. “And why are you telling me this? Last I checked, you were supposed to be investigating these deaths, not warning their potential cause.”

“Oh, but don’t you see?” He catches my wrist, his fingers automatically finding my pulse point. “This is the most fascinating investigation of my career! The perfect synthesis of chemistry, biology, and human nature.” His other hand reaches up to brush my cheek, the gesture startlingly gentle for someone who’d been gleefully discussing cellular degradation moments before. “Besides, maybe I find myself preferring the mystery to the solution. Scientific heresy, I know, but there it is.”

The admission hangs in the air between us, charged with possibility and danger. For a moment, I’m tempted to lean into his touch, to trust this brilliant, broken man who sees the artistry in what I do.

But trust is a luxury I can’t afford. Not with wolves circling closer.

“Lucas,” I say softly, allowing genuine regret to color my voice, “whatever you think you know about me, about Celeste—you’re only scratching the surface. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.”

“No mystery is better left unsolved,” he counters, a hint of his professional obsession bleeding through. “Every puzzle demands resolution. Every death tells a story. Every chemicalreaction reaches its inevitable conclusion.” His grip on my wrist tightens fractionally. “I could help you, you know. My lab, my resources, my... flexible interpretation of medical ethics.”

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “The truth is a dangerous thing,” I whisper. “It has teeth.”

His eyes light up at that. “Teeth! Yes, exactly! Speaking of which, I have this fascinating specimen in my lab from a John Doe who—” He catches himself, visibly reining in his enthusiasm. “But that’s not the point, is it? The point is, I’m already involved. Already compromised. Already...” he pauses, searching for the right word, “...invested.”

“Invested,” I repeat dryly. “Is that what we’re calling your obsessive collection of toxicology reports on my... alleged activities?”

His face lights up like a child on Christmas morning. “You know about those? Brilliant! Then you must have seen my theories about your use of native Louisiana flora. The way you combine traditional hoodoo knowledge with modern biochemistry is absolutely revolutionary! I have this whole wall in my private lab dedicated to—” He stops, catching my expression. “Too much?”

“Just a bit,” I say, but can’t quite fight back a smile. There’s something almost endearing about his maniacal enthusiasm. Almost.

He runs a hand through his already chaotic hair, making it stand up even more wildly. “Right, yes, focus. Boundaries. Social cues.” He takes a deep breath, visibly trying to collect himself. “The point is, I’ve been analyzing the organization’s recent victims. The compound they’re using? It’s derivative of your work, but cruder. More rushed. Like someone’s trying to replicate your methods without truly understanding the artistry behind them.”

That gets my attention. “Show me.”

Lucas practically vibrates with excitement, fishing a folded paper from his lab coat pocket. As he unfolds it, I notice his hands are stained with ink and what might be iodine. The paper is covered in his cramped handwriting, chemical formulas and molecular diagrams scrawled in multiple colors, with arrows and exclamation points everywhere.

“See?” He points to a particularly complex diagram. “They’re using native wetland botanicals, like you do, but the extraction method is all wrong. It’s leaving traces. Molecular fingerprints.” He giggles. “Amateur hour, really. Though I have to admit, the resulting tissue necrosis patterns are fascinating. I have photos if you’d like to?—”

“I’ll pass,” I interrupt quickly. “Lucas, this is...” I pause, studying the formula. He’s right – it’s similar to my work, but wrong in crucial ways. Ways that make my blood run cold. “How many victims?”

His expression turns serious, or as serious as he ever gets. “Seven in the past month. All made to look like natural causes—heart attacks, strokes, aneurysms. But the toxin signature is consistent.” He leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And here’s the really interesting part—they all had connections to councilman Davis’ old business partners.”

Davis. Of course. He’s cleaning house, eliminating loose ends.

And looking for me—for Celeste—in the process.

“You should walk away from this,” I tell Lucas, though I know it’s futile. “Forget what you’ve found. Go back to your regular autopsies and tissue samples.”

He laughs, the sound slightly unhinged. “Walk away? From the most fascinating case of my career? From you?” He shakes his head. “Darling, I haven’t slept properly in weeks trying to decode your methods. I’ve got three journals filled with theories about your work. I’ve been conducting experiments with localplants trying to reverse engineer your formulas. I may have slightly poisoned myself twice in the process—purely accidental, wonderful learning experience though.”

“Lucas—”

“No, listen,” he grabs my shoulders, his eyes fever-bright. “We could work together. Your knowledge of toxins, my lab resources. Think of the possibilities! The research potential alone is staggering. And yes, fine, we could probably also stop whatever nefarious plot is currently unfolding, if you care about that sort of thing.”

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