Page 8 of Whispers in the Quarter

As night falls over New Orleans, I prepare for whatever challenges tomorrow may bring. In this city of secrets and sin, every shadow holds a story, and every heart holds a secret.

And me? I’m the biggest secret of them all.

3

LUCAS

MEDICAL EXAMINER’S PRIVATE NOTES

Dr. L. Gautier

RE: Recent “Natural” Deaths

Subject H.B. displays fascinating cellular degradation patterns similar to previous cases. Local plant-based toxin, expertly modified. Chimera’s work becoming more elegant.

Note to self: Begin documenting psychological effects of prolonged exposure to brilliant darkness. Finding myself increasingly drawn to chaos. Most fascinating.

The fluorescent lightsflicker and hum at 60 Hz—I measured it precisely during one of my more manic episodes last week. Had the most fascinating theory about how the frequency might affect cellular degradation patterns. The results were... inconclusive. Though the burn mark on my left palm provided some delightfully unexpected data points.

“Home sweet laboratory,” I sing-song to myself, spinning in my chair as I survey my private sanctuary. The official morgueis two floors up, all sterile protocol and boring bureaucracy. But down here, in my personal playground?

Chaos and brilliance dance together like lovers.

My wall of evidence about my Chimera—myresearch boardas I professionally label it for the occasional nosy colleague—has grown exponentially since our encounter in the alley. Photos, toxicology reports, molecular diagrams, all connected by red string and the occasional coffee-stained sticky note. At the center, a chemical composition I’ve been obsessing over for weeks: the molecular structure of her favorite poison.

Beautiful. Elegant. Lethal.

Just like her.

I giggle, the sound echoing off sterile walls. “What delicious mysteries have you brought me tonight, my lovelies?” My fingers dance across various vials, each containing failed attempts to recreate her work. Number seven gave me heart palpitations for three days. Number thirteen... well, let’s just say I now know exactly how long it takes for partial paralysis to wear off.

Worth it. All of it worth it for the science. For the art. For her.

My personal laptop chirps—not the official one, oh no, this one’s for my more... experimental research. Anonymous data about recent deaths, each one a unique masterpiece. My hands tremble with excitement as I pull up the files.

“Oh, you clever, clever girl,” I breathe, eyes darting across chemical signatures and tissue analyses. “Using native Louisiana flora but adding something... something...” I pause, squinting at the screen. “Something deliciously wrong.”

The centrifuge whirs to life, its steady rhythm matching my racing pulse. I pluck my latest attempt at recreating her formula from the rack—attempt number twenty-two, now with 30% less chance of accidental death! The deep crimson liquid catches the light, and for a moment, I swear I see constellations swirling in its depths.

Or perhaps that’s just the sleep deprivation. I check my watch—have I been here thirty-six hours or forty-eight? Time becomes so beautifully fluid when you’re dancing on the edge of scientific breakthrough and potential psychosis.

“Dance for me, little molecules,” I croon, watching the deep crimson liquid catch the light. “Show me what secrets you’re hiding about my magnificent monster.”

My phone’s buzz interrupts my chemical courtship. Ethan’s name flashes on the screen—ah yes, the mundane world intrudes. Such terrible timing. I’m rather certain I was on the verge of either a breakthrough or a seizure.

With attempt twenty-two, it’s really a delightful coin toss.

“Blake!” I answer with manic cheer. “Burning the midnight oil again? Or should I say, burning the midnight corpses?” I pause, checking my watch. “Though technically it’s 3 AM, so I suppose it’s more of a pre-dawn decomposition?—”

“Lucas.” Ethan’s voice cuts through my rambling, tense and unamused. Poor man never appreciates my mortuary humor. “I need your eyes on something. The Celeste case—I think we’ve been looking at it all wrong.”

“Oh?” I perk up, spinning in my chair fast enough to make the room tilt pleasantly. Or perhaps that’s the lingering effects of attempt twenty.

Note to self: investigate possible vestibular system impacts. “Do tell, my dear detective. What fascinating horrors have you uncovered?”

“The victims are connected, Lucas,” Ethan’s voice has that intense edge I’ve come to recognize. The one that means he’s been surviving on coffee and obsession for days. “Not just the method of death, but their histories. All of them had ties to?—”

“Old money families,” I finish, eyes fixed on my microscope. “Yes, yes, quite fascinating really. Though perhaps not as fascinating as what this blood sample is doing. The cellulardegradation pattern is...” I trail off, watching in delight as the cells fragment in a hauntingly familiar dance. “Oh, you beautiful disaster.”

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