Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

7. Ethan

7

ETHAN

INVESTIGATION NOTES

Pattern suggests killer operates within victim social circles. Agent Blake theorizes service industry connection. Surveillance of local establishments initiated.

The stench of death clings to me as I duck under the yellow police tape.

Lauren’s first rule of crime scenes echoes in my head: “Death has a language all its own. Learn to read it, or miss half the story.”

Early morning sunlight slices through grimy windows, and I catalog details with the obsessive precision she taught me—dust patterns disturbed, slight scuff marks on the floor, the almost imperceptible chemical smell beneath the decay.

The French Quarter’s underbelly, where secrets fester and justice comes to die. Just another day in paradise, folks. Though Lauren would say I’m being melodramatic again.

The floorboards creak ominously under my feet as I conduct my initial sweep. Two exits, three windows—all potential escape routes. Security camera in the hall is conveniently broken. A baby wails somewhere in the building, the sound muffled but piercing. I note it automatically—background noise that could mask a struggle, cover the sound of someone coming or going.

Detective Reeves appears, looking like he’s been chewed up and spit out by the city itself. I catalog his appearance through Lauren’s lens—tension in his shoulders suggesting he’s armed, slight tremor in his hands indicating he’s overdue for a cigarette. The acrid smell of stale smoke clings to him like a second skin.

“We’ve got a second body,” he growls, his voice as rough as sandpaper. “Male, late thirties. No obvious cause of death, just like Morrow and the others. But here’s the kicker—he’s got ties to Councilman Davis. And get this. The body was in the basement. We fucking missed it.”

My pulse quickens even as Lauren’s voice whispers: “Follow the money, follow the bodies. They always lead to the same place.”

“What kind of ties?” I keep my voice neutral, professional. “Details matter, Detective. They’re usually what gets overlooked.”

Reeves shoots me a look that could curdle milk. “Low-level fixer, mostly. But he might’ve known something important.” He scratches his stubbled chin, his eyes narrowing. “Davis has been untouchable for years. If this is what brings him down...”

I nod, mind already mapping connections. Lauren taught me to visualize cases like constellations—each star a fact, each line a potential link. This could be the thread that unravels everything, or just another dead end in a maze of corruption.

The basement hits me with a wall of evidence to process. One body, positioned naturally—no signs of staging. I note the victims’ lividity, indicating he died where he lies. No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. Just like the others. My training screams that this is wrong, all wrong.

“Sometimes the most important evidence is what you don’t find,” Lauren’s voice reminds me. “Look for the gaps, the negative spaces.”

Too many deaths, and now this—a prominent businessman and his fixer, both with ties to the most powerful man in the city. The connection’s there, just beyond my grasp, like catching smoke with bare hands.

The air is thick with the cloying sweetness of decay, undercut by the Quarter’s eternal perfume—stale beer, yesterday’s garbage, and sins best left unspoken. As I begin my examination, latex squeaking against skin, my traitorous mind drifts to Celeste. Her reaction to Morrow’s death plays on repeat in my head—the micro-expressions Lauren taught me to read, the subtle tells that scream she knows more than she’s saying.

“Focus, dammit,” I snarl at myself.

Lauren’s voice joins the chorus: “Your heart’s always been your blind spot, Ethan. Don’t let it get another person killed.”

I force myself to concentrate on the victims. Morrow, a businessman with a spotless public image. We found him upstairs in his room.

And now this fixer, John Doe for now. Average height, average build. The kind of face you’d pass on the street without a second glance.

Lauren’s voice cuts through my analysis: “Nobody’s average when they’re dead, Ethan. Every corpse tells a story—you just need to learn the language.”

My eyes catch on a detail—a small tattoo on the fixer’s wrist, mostly hidden by his watch. Lauren taught me to check there; people often hide their most telling marks under timepieces. I gently move it, revealing a stylized fleur-de-lis.

“Coincidences in murder investigations,” Lauren’s memory whispers, “are like unicorns. Pretty to think about, but they don’t exist.”

A commotion in the hallway snaps me to attention. Years of training kick in—assessing threats, marking positions, noting exits. Then I hear her voice, and every professional instinct wars with personal desire.

“Delivery for Detective Reeves. From the Magnolia Diner.”

Celeste. Here. Now. Lauren’s warning rings clear, but it’s drowned out by how the harsh crime scene lights somehow make her eyes more vivid—green like summer leaves in sunlight. A detail so irrelevant to the case that I’m annoyed with myself for noticing it.

Lauren’s warning rings clear: “The most dangerous suspects are the ones who make you want to believe them.”

I step into the hallway, and there she is. Dressed in that deceptively simple waitress uniform, holding a paper bag that smells of salvation after hours of death and decay. My investigator’s mind catalogs details automatically—her too-precise stance, the way she’s positioned herself with clear sightlines to both exits, how her eyes swept the scene before settling on me. Just like Lauren described in her last case notes about surveillance subjects.

“I’ve got this,” I tell Reeves, my voice rougher than intended. He doesn’t need to be told twice, his footsteps fading like the last echoes of normalcy in my life.

“Celeste,” I say, struggling to keep my voice neutral even as my body betrays me, pulse racing, palms suddenly damp.

Lauren’s voice cuts through the fog of attraction: “Your tells are showing, rookie. Control your reactions or lose control of the scene.”

“I was worried about you, Ethan.” Her words seem genuine, but I note the subtle signs Lauren taught me to recognize—slight tension in her shoulders, the way her weight shifts toward the exit.

“That’s... that’s thoughtful of you,” I manage, taking the bag from her. Our fingers brush, and electricity arcs between us. Professional training catalogs her reaction—pupils dilate, breath catches, pulse visible at her throat. All signs of attraction... or anxiety. But what my training doesn’t explain is why I can’t stop noticing how she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous, or the way her accent gets stronger when she’s trying to deflect.

Lauren’s voice again: “Sometimes fear and desire look exactly the same. That’s what makes them both so dangerous.”

“So,” she says, voice low and husky. “Another victim?”

The question triggers warning bells. Too casual, too probing.

“Watch for people who volunteer to enter crime scenes,” Lauren would say. “They’re either reporters, killers, or both.”

“I shouldn’t really talk about an open case, but...” I trail off, torn between training and temptation. “Dammit, Celeste. I wish I could tell you everything.”

Lauren’s disapproving sigh echoes in my memory: “Secrets shared are weapons given.”

She nods, disappointment and something else—relief?—flickering across her face. The tell is so quick I almost miss it. Almost. Thank you, Lauren, for those endless hours of interrogation training.

“It’s not just a case anymore,” I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “There’s something bigger going on. Something that goes all the way to the top.”

Lauren’s voice screams in my head: “Stop talking, you idiot. You’re giving away your hand.”

Celeste’s eyes widen, the green darkening to the color of moss-covered secrets. “The top? You mean...”

“I’ve said too much,” I cut her off, suddenly aware of how far I’ve stepped over the line. “You should go. It’s not safe for you here. And I’m not just talking about the crime scene. My dance moves are lethal.”

She gives me a very un-lady like snort. One that I somehow find attractive along with her crooked smile. “As you were Agent Blake.”

As she turns to leave, something catches my eye. A small smudge on the doorframe, almost invisible unless you know what to look for.

Lauren taught me about trace evidence my first week in the field. “The smallest details solve the biggest cases,” she’d say.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of evidence bags and lukewarm coffee. I interview neighbors who haven’t seen anything, canvass local businesses with suspiciously malfunctioning security cameras, and chase leads that dissolve like morning fog.

Lauren’s investigative mantras keep me focused: “Follow the patterns. Follow the breaks in patterns. Follow your gut, but never trust it completely.”

As sunset paints the sky in bruised purples, I find myself drawn back to the Magnolia Diner. Celeste is behind the counter, and the sight of her hits me like a physical blow.

Lauren’s final warning rings in my ears: “The most dangerous attraction is the one you see coming but walk into anyway.”

“Agent Blake,” she says, voice carefully neutral. Her body language speaks volumes—slight tension, maintained distance, calculated movements. Everything Lauren taught me to recognize in a subject with something to hide.

I slide onto a stool, positioning myself to watch both her and the door. Old habits die hard.

“Had some questions about this morning’s delivery,” I say carefully. “Don’t suppose it came with a side of answers to all my case-related questions?”

Her smile falters—a crack in the facade.

Lauren would be circling that detail in red ink.

“Oh? Is there a problem?” Celeste asks.

“Just curious why you volunteered for that particular run.” I keep my voice light, but my eyes track her micro-expressions. “It’s not exactly the safest neighborhood.”

She laughs, but it sounds forced, brittle. “Like I said, I was worried about you. Is that so hard to believe? You looked like you needed a decent meal and some mothering.”

I lean in, lowering my voice. “Celeste, if you know something about these deaths, you need to tell me. I can protect you, but only if you’re honest with me. And by protect, I mean awkwardly flirt with you while trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism.”

For a moment, I think I see her walls crumble. She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume—jasmine and danger.

“Ethan,” she whispers, “there are things about me, about my past... things you wouldn’t understand. Like my brief stint as a competitive yodeler.”

My heart races, hoping against hope that this is it, that she’s finally going to let me in. Or at least explain the yodeling thing.

But then the moment passes. She straightens, mask firmly back in place. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know anything that could help your investigation. Unless you need tips on how to get ketchup stains out of a uniform. In which case, I’m your girl.”

As I watch her walk away, I feel a mix of frustration and admiration. Celeste is a labyrinth, and I’m Theseus without a thread, willing to get lost forever if it means reaching the center. Or at least finding a decent cup of coffee along the way.

The diner buzzes with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of plates. In a corner booth, I spot Jazz Reynaud, local musician with rumored connections to the city’s underbelly. Our eyes meet briefly before he turns back to his coffee.

Lauren’s voice: “Sometimes the best sources are the ones hiding in plain sight.”

As I nurse my coffee, my mind wanders back to the case. Or at least it should. Instead, I find myself tracking the precise way she moves between tables, the rhythm of her steps like some complicated dance I’m trying to memorize without meaning to.

Davis . The name keeps coming up, again and again. A man with a spotless public image and a private life shrouded in rumor and innuendo.

What’s his connection to all this? And how far would he go to keep his secrets buried? Knowing my luck, probably far enough to make my life a living hell for the foreseeable future.

My phone buzzes just as I’m leaving. The message makes my blood run cold:

Unknown : Meet me at the old warehouse on Tchoupitoulas Street. Midnight. Come alone if you want the truth. - C

Lauren’s voice is immediate and sharp: “It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap. Are you really going to walk into it anyway?”

Yes. Yes, I am.

As midnight approaches, my heart races with a potent mix of anticipation and dread. The weight of the gun at my hip is both a comfort and a reminder of the danger I’m walking into. Images of the victims flash through my mind —the politician, the socialite, the businessman, another businessman, and now the fixer.

What connects them?

What am I missing?

Besides, apparently, a healthy sense of self-preservation.

I think of Celeste, of the way she looked at me in the diner. There was fear in her eyes, yes, but also something else. A longing, a desperation. Is she a victim in all this too? Or is she playing me, using my attraction to her as a smokescreen? Or am I just projecting my own confused feelings onto her like some lovesick teenager?

The warehouse looms before me at midnight, a hulking shadow against the star-studded sky. Every lesson Lauren ever taught me screams that this is wrong—no backup, poor visibility, too many entry points to cover.

“At least clear the scene properly,” her voice sighs in resignation.

I move through the space with mechanical precision, checking corners, noting exits, marking potential cover. The rusted door creaks open, the sound echoing in the cavernous space like a gunshot.

“Celeste?” I call out, one hand on my weapon.

Lauren’s final lesson plays in my head: “Sometimes the truth is more dangerous than the lie. Are you sure you’re ready for either?”

But there’s nothing. No response. Only the rapid beating of my heart and the weight of every choice that led me here.

I’m completely and utterly alone.

Just me and Lauren’s ghost, waiting to see which will kill me first—the truth about Celeste, or my need to uncover it.