Page 6 of Whispers in the Quarter

LOCATION: Café du Monde

SUBJECT: E. Blake

Agent continues to exhibit erratic behavior. Third day watching same location. Request guidance re: potential psychological evaluation. No sign of primary target “Ghost.”

NOTE: Subject appeared to have private conversation in empty apartment last night. Possible stress-induced breakdown?

The sweet aromaof beignets and chicory coffee wafts through the air as I slide into my strategically chosen seat at Café du Monde—back to the wall, clear sightlines to both exits, perfect view of Royal Street’s morning chaos.

My skin still tingles from Lucas’s touch hours earlier, his brilliant madness a sharp contrast to the meeting ahead. I adjust my sunglasses, less a shield against the morning sun and more against the memories of the last time I saw Ethan.

His voice, raw with betrayal: “Stay. Please.”

My answer: I ran.

A street performer’s trumpet hits a blue note that twists in my gut as I spot him approaching through the tourist crowd. Three months have carved new lines in Ethan’s face, etched shadows under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights and obsession. His suit, while impeccable, hangs slightly loose—he’s lost weight.

Hunting ghosts will do that to a man.

Especially when the ghost used to share his bed.

I force my fingers to remain steady around my coffee cup, channeling the careful control that Lucas so admires. “Agent Blake? I’m Evangeline Thibodaux. Thank you for meeting me.”

Ethan’s eyes narrow as they sweep over me, and for a heart-stopping moment, I see recognition flicker in their depths. He’s always been too observant for my comfort. “Ms. Thibodaux,” he replies, his voice carrying that same rough edge that used to whisper against my skin in the dark. “I appreciate you agreeing to talk.”

As he sits, I catalogue his changes with a professional eye: the new tension in his shoulders, the way his right hand stays close to his concealed weapon, the slight tremor in his fingers that suggests he’s running on coffee and determination.

This isn’t just about the case anymore. This is personal.

And that makes him infinitely more dangerous.

“So,” I begin, keeping my tone professionally curious, though my pulse quickens as he leans forward, close enough that I catch the familiar scent of his cologne mingled with gunpowder. Some habits never change. “What can I do for the FBI today?”

“I’m investigating the disappearance of a woman named Celeste Deveraux.” His gaze is razor-sharp, dissecting every micro-expression. We used to play this game across the diner counter, him trying to guess my tells over morning coffee. I wasbetter at lying then. I’m exceptional at it now. “I understand you might have some information.”

I tilt my head, letting confusion ripple across my features like rain on water. “Celeste Deveraux?” The name tastes like ashes on my tongue. Like betrayal and midnight escapes. Like the last time I watched him sleep before disappearing into the New Orleans dawn. “I’m not sure I know that name.”

“She worked at the Magnolia Diner,” Ethan presses, and there it is—that familiar intensity that used to set my blood on fire. Still does, if I’m honest. “Disappeared about three months ago.” His jaw tightens. “Right after I gave her a chance to come clean.”

The last part is barely a whisper, meant more for himself than me, but it lands like a punch to the gut. I cover my reaction by pouring more cream into my coffee, watching the white clouds billow and swirl. Like smoke from a gun. Like the fog of lies between us.

“I’m sorry, Agent Blake.” The title feels wrong on my tongue after all the ways I’ve whispered his first name. “I don’t frequent that part of town much.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. Frustration, anger, or something deeper?

“Ms. Thibodaux,” he says, and I watch his knuckles whiten around his untouched coffee cup. “I have reason to believe you might know more than you’re letting on. Celeste’s disappearance... it’s connected to something bigger. Something dangerous.”

I let concern color my voice, though probably not for the reasons he assumes. “Dangerous? What do you mean?”

He hesitates, and I see the war behind his eyes – the professional agent battling the man who once shared my secrets and my bed. “There’s been a string of unexplained deaths. All somehow linked to Celeste.” His voice drops lower, intimatedespite the bustling cafe around us. “I need to find her. Before anyone else gets hurt.”

The raw pain in his voice makes me think of Lucas’s warnings about the organization, about the crude copies of my work. About the growing body count. I want to reach across the table, to tell him everything. About who Celeste really is, about why I had to run. But I see the ghost of a gun pressed to my sister’s head every time I close my eyes.

Some secrets are worth dying to protect.

Some secrets are worth letting love die to protect.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, and at least this isn’t a lie. “I wish I could help. But I really don’t know anything about this woman or these deaths.”

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