Page 7 of Whispers in the Quarter

His eyes search mine, and for a moment, I’m back in his bed, sunlight painting patterns across bare skin, truth flowing as easily as breath between us. But that was before. Before Celeste’s killer resurfaced. Before I chose vengeance over love.

Before I became everyone and no one at all.

After a long moment that feels like drowning, Ethan sighs and pulls out a photo. “Take a look at this. Maybe it’ll jog your memory.”

My breath catches—not at the photo itself, which I knew he’d bring, but at the way his fingers tremble slightly as he handles it. The same way they used to tremble when he’d trace patterns on my skin in the dark, whispering about justice and truth and forever. All those pretty lies we told ourselves.

It’s me in the image—or rather, Celeste. Caught in a moment of genuine laughter behind the diner’s counter, sunlight turning my hair to dark fire. I remember that day. Ethan had just told some terrible joke about forensic evidence, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made my heart stumble.

Twenty-four hours later, he would have me arrested.

Twenty-five hours later, I had a new identity thanks to Lucas.

“She’s pretty,” I comment, carefully neutral, though the words taste like battery acid. I slide the photo back, our fingers brushing. The contact sends electricity arcing up my arm, and I see him stiffen slightly. Some chemistry refuses to die, no matter how deeply you bury it. “But I’m sorry, I don’t recognize her.”

It’s a lie of course. Though then my hair was long and dark, and now it’s colored to a rich chestnut.

“Are you sure?” His voice has gone rough, like he’s been screaming or not speaking for days. “Look closely. Anyone you might have seen her with? Any place you might have spotted her?” The desperation leaks through, and it takes everything in me not to flinch. “She has to be somewhere. People don’t just?—”

“Disappear?” I finish softly, of all the names I’ve worn like masks. “New Orleans is a big city, Agent Blake. Full of shadows and secrets. It’s easy for people to vanish here if they want to.” Or if they have to.

His eyes flash with sudden intensity, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s seen through me. “Do you think that’s what happened? She wanted to disappear?”

I choose my words like selecting poison—carefully, precisely, with full knowledge of the damage they’ll do. “I wouldn’t know. But if someone did want to start over...” I gesture at the crowds flowing past, the city breathing around us like a living thing. “New Orleans isn’t a bad place to do it. Everybody here is running from something.”

Or toward something. Revenge. Justice. The truth about a sister’s murder.

Ethan leans back, but his eyes never leave my face. I see the profiler in him warring with the lover, the investigator battling the man who still wakes reaching for a ghost. “No,” he says finally, “I suppose it isn’t.”

The silence that falls between us is heavy with everything we can’t say. Everything I won’t say. The cafe’s bustle fades to whitenoise, and for a moment, it’s just us and three months of lies stretching like an ocean between us.

Finally, Ethan stands. The movement is fluid, dangerous—a predator’s grace poorly hidden beneath his FBI suit. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Thibodaux.” He produces a business card, holding it out like an offering. Or a challenge. “If you think of anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

I take the card, and our fingers brush again. The contact is electric, dangerous, and I see that same spark of recognition flare in his eyes. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to call me out, to strip away all my carefully constructed lies.

“Of course,” I say smoothly, tucking the card away. “I hope you find her, Agent Blake.”

The words hang between us like a loaded gun. He studies me for one more long moment, and I feel him cataloging everything—my posture, my breathing, the way I won’t quite meet his eyes. I know this look. I used to watch him build profiles, piece together the puzzle of human behavior. Now I’m the puzzle, and he’s getting dangerously close to seeing the whole picture.

“So do I,” he says finally, and the weight of unspoken accusations in those three words nearly breaks me.

As he walks away, I allow myself a moment of weakness. My hand trembles as I reach for my coffee, the bitter liquid doing nothing to wash away the taste of lies and longing.

Three months ago, I would have been sharing this coffee with him, trading theories about cases, stealing kisses between crime scene discussions. Now we’re on opposite sides of a war he doesn’t even know he’s fighting.

I’ve maintained my cover, but the cost feels heavier than ever. The pain in his eyes, the determination in his voice—he’s not going to let this go. And that makes him more dangerous than ever. To the mission. To himself. To my heart.

The streets of the French Quarter seem to mock me as I make my way back to Madame Laveau’s. Every face could be watching, reporting back to the organization. Every shadow could be hiding another piece of the puzzle I’m trying to solve. In this city of masks and mysteries, trust is a luxury I can’t afford.

But as I unlock the shop door, the weight of my locket heavy against my chest, I’m reminded of why I’m doing this. Why I took my sister’s name, her identity, her mission. The photo in the locket burns against my skin—a reminder of promises made and a life stolen too soon.

“I’m close,” I whisper to the empty shop, to Celeste’s memory. “I won’t let them win. I won’t let your death be in vain.”

The voodoo dolls and mystical trinkets seem to watch me with knowing eyes as I move through the shop. In this moment, I’m acutely aware of the thin line I’m walking between justice and vengeance, between love and duty.

Ethan’s haunted eyes flash in my mind. Lucas’s brilliant madness. Jazz’s soulful gaze. Each of them a complication, a potential weakness in my carefully constructed armor. Each of them holding a piece of me I can’t afford to reclaim.

But I’ve come too far to turn back now. The organization is out there, pulling strings, destroying lives. And I’m the only one who can stop them.

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