Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

9. Ethan

9

ETHAN

FIELD REPORT

Witness describes encounter with suspected Viper. “Felt like they knew me, my habits.” Agent Blake flags possible stalking period before kills.

The harsh glare of the desk lamp casts long shadows across my dimly lit hotel room, turning the space into a confessional for sins yet uncommitted. Lauren’s case files used to look just like this—spread across every surface like tarot cards predicting doom.

“The answers are always in the chaos,” she’d say. “You just have to learn to read them.”

Case files lay spread across the bed, a mosaic of horror and mystery that seems to pulse with malevolent life in the flickering light. The victims’ photos stare up at me, their unseeing eyes an accusation I can’t shake. Just like Lauren’s eyes in that final crime scene photo I can never unsee.

One I don’t want to shake. Some ghosts you carry forever.

My fingers twitch, longing for the familiar weight of a cigarette I’d given up years ago—a habit Lauren had hated. Instead, I reach for the glass of whiskey on the nightstand, the amber liquid catching the light like trapped fire. The burn as it slides down my throat is a poor substitute for the answers I crave, but it’ll do. For now.

As the ice in my glass slowly melts, my thoughts drift to Celeste. Her enigmatic smile, the way she cases every room she enters, the hint of danger that lurks behind her eyes... she’s a puzzle I’m becoming dangerously obsessed with solving.

Lately, I’ve caught myself noticing things Lauren would call irrelevant to the case—how she taps her pen three times before writing, the way sunlight catches the gold flecks in her eyes, the slight accent that creeps into her voice when she’s tired.

“The most dangerous suspects,” Lauren would warn, “are the ones who make you want to believe them.”

My hand clenches around the glass, knuckles white with the effort of restraint. The other hand automatically checking my weapon—old habits Lauren drilled into me. Always armed, never prepared for the real dangers.

You’re losing it, Blake, I think, the voice in my head a mocking echo of my old partner. She’s a lead, maybe even a suspect. Not your goddamn salvation.

Lauren’s voice joins the chorus: “Your heart’s always been your blind spot.”

But even as I berate myself, my free hand is reaching for the phone. The numbers glow accusingly in the dim light as I dial the Magnolia Diner, my heart a war drum in my chest. Every professional instinct screams that this is a mistake.

“Magnolia Diner, Celeste speaking. How can I help you?” Her voice is smoke and honey, a siren’s call I’m powerless to resist. Christ, I’m in trouble. Lauren would be rolling her eyes right about now.

“Celeste,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend, years of interrogation training deserting me. “It’s Ethan. I need your help with something. Can you meet me after your shift?”

A pause, heavy with unspoken possibilities. I note the slight catch in her breath—anxiety? Anticipation? Lauren taught me to read people’s voices like books. “Is everything okay, Ethan?” The concern seems genuine, but underneath it, I catch a note of... calculation?

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah, I just... I could use a fresh pair of eyes on these case files. And maybe some of that coffee of yours.” The words feel inadequate, a flimsy excuse for the real reason I want to see her. Smooth, Blake. Real smooth. Lauren would be laughing her ass off right now.

She laughs softly, the sound wrapping around me like a caress. “Alright, Agent Blake. You’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll be there in an hour.”

As I hang up, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror above the desk. The man staring back at me looks haunted, desperate. I barely recognize myself. When did I become this guy?

Lauren’s voice whispers: “The moment you started letting your heart override your training.”

The wait is excruciating. I try to refocus on the files, applying the systematic approach Lauren taught me—look for patterns, follow the money, track the gaps in alibis. But the words blur together, meaningless. My training dissolves into the whiskey-warm air as I find myself pacing the small room, every creak of the floorboards an accusation.

The muffled sounds of the city filter through the window—distant sirens, the occasional burst of laughter, the low hum of traffic. I catalog each sound automatically, just like Lauren taught me. Always aware, always assessing. Even now, I can’t turn it off.

Finally, a soft knock at my door sends my pulse into overdrive. I take a deep breath, straighten my rumpled shirt, and perform the routine Lauren drilled into me—check weapon, check exits, check sight lines. Here goes nothing. Or everything.

Celeste stands there, a vision in the harsh hallway light. But it’s not her beauty that my trained eye catches first—it’s how she positions herself slightly to the side of the door frame, how her eyes sweep the room before entering, cataloging exits just like I would. Just like Lauren taught me to notice. And yet, I’m also noticing things my training can’t explain—the faint scent of coffee and something floral that seems to follow her, how she unconsciously brushes her thumb across her wrist when she’s thinking.

She holds a thermos in one hand and a bag that smells tantalizingly of fresh pastries in the other. “If we’re going to be up all night chasing ghosts, might as well be properly caffeinated,” she says, a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Then, almost to herself, she adds, “Though some ghosts, maybe we should let rest...”

The words send a chill down my spine.

Lauren’s voice echoes: “Pay attention to the throwaway lines, Ethan. That’s where people hide their truths.”

I shut the door, the soft click of the latch sounding like a death knell for my professional detachment. When I turn, Celeste is surveying the room with the same tactical awareness I use at crime scenes. Her eyes linger on the chaos of files spread across the bed.

“So,” she says, setting down her offerings and turning to face me. The movement is too fluid, too practiced. Lauren would be circling that detail in red ink. “Where do we start?”

I gesture to the files, trying to ignore how her presence makes the room feel smaller, more intimate. “I’ve been trying to find a connection between the victims, but nothing seems to fit. It’s like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle where half the pieces are missing and the other half are from different boxes.”

Celeste nods, her eyes scanning the documents with an intensity that both impresses and unnerves me. She picks up a photo, and I watch her face with the attention Lauren taught me to use in interrogations. Every micro-expression tells a story—recognition, sadness, and something else I can’t quite place.

“This man,” she says, tapping the image. “I recognize him. He used to come into the diner late at night, always looking nervous.” Her voice carries the same careful neutrality Lauren used when she was onto something big.

My heart rate picks up, excitement warring with suspicion. I move closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. Professional distance dissolving like sugar in bitter coffee. “That’s James Morrow. Did he ever say anything suspicious? Order the secret informant special perhaps?”

Celeste’s brow furrows, creating a small crease between her eyebrows. Her teeth worry at her lower lip, a gesture I find inexplicably captivating. “Not exactly, but... he was always writing in this little black notebook. I remember thinking it was odd for a businessman to be so secretive.”

“And serial killers keep journals,” Lauren’s voice whispers in my memory. “So do their victims, when they know they’re being hunted.”

I jot down her observation, my mind racing. Professional instincts warring with how distracting it is to watch her mind work—the slight furrow of concentration between her brows, the way she mouths words silently as she reads, details I shouldn’t be cataloging but can’t seem to stop collecting.

“A notebook... that could be the break we need. If we could find it?—”

“Look at this,” Celeste interrupts, pointing to another file. Our hands brush as she leans in, and I have to suppress a shiver at the contact.

Lauren’s voice cuts through the fog of attraction: “Physical contact during interviews is either calculated or careless. Figure out which.”

“All of these victims had connections to City Hall, right?” Celeste continues, either oblivious to or expertly ignoring our contact. “Specifically, the Department of Urban Development.”

I look where she’s pointing, the realization hitting me like a thunderbolt. My free hand comes to rest on her shoulder—an unconscious gesture that Lauren would’ve crucified me for. “Celeste, this is... you’re incredible. I mean, this lead is incredible. You’ve just blown this case wide open.”

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, my training falters. There is only Celeste, her face inches from mine, her eyes wide with an emotion I can’t name but feel echoed in my own chest. The air between us crackles with electricity, with possibility.

“The most dangerous moment in any investigation,” Lauren whispers in memory, “is when you stop seeing the subject and start seeing the person.”

Without thinking, I pull her into a hug. She stiffens for a moment—tactical awareness, my training notes—then melts into my embrace. The warmth of her body against mine, the softness of her hair tickling my cheek—it feels right in a way that terrifies me.

As we pull apart, our eyes meet again, and the tension in the room ratchets up another notch. For a heart-stopping moment, I think she might kiss me. I find myself leaning in, professional ethics be damned.

But then my phone rings, the shrill sound shattering the moment like a bullet through glass.

Lauren’s voice: “Sometimes interruptions are the universe’s way of saving you from yourself.”

I answer it, turning away from Celeste to hide my frustration and the evidence of how affected I am by her proximity.

“Blake,” I bark into the phone, my voice rough with suppressed emotion.

“It’s Reeves,” comes the gruff reply. “We’ve got movement on Gregory Thompson. He’s headed to the warehouse district.”

I feel a surge of adrenaline, my body instantly on alert. Training kicks in, pushing aside everything else. Almost everything. “I’m on my way. Send me the location.”

As I hang up, I turn back to Celeste. My investigator’s eye catches her expression—carefully composed now, but not before I glimpse something. Fear? Disappointment? Or something more calculated?

Lauren would tell me to note it, analyze it later.

“I have to go,” I say, already reaching for my jacket, checking my weapon automatically. “A lead on a person of interest. Duty calls, and all that jazz.”

Celeste nods, her composure perfect now. Too perfect? “Of course. Go. Be safe, Ethan.” There’s a weight to her words that my training says I should examine more closely.

I pause at the door, looking back at her. The sight of her in my room, surrounded by the detritus of my investigation, stirs something primal in me. But it’s my training that notices how comfortable she looks among the crime scene photos, how her eyes keep returning to certain files.

“Trust your instincts,” Lauren’s voice whispers, “but never ignore your training.”

The stakeout is a study in frustration. Reeves and I spend hours crouched in an unmarked car, watching the warehouse Gregory had entered. Lauren taught me patience during stakeouts, but all I can think about is Celeste. The warmth of her body against mine, the intensity in her eyes as she pored over the case files...

“Focus,” Lauren’s voice snaps. “Distraction gets people killed. Or have you forgotten?”

Finally, as the first light of dawn paints the sky in shades of pink and gold, we make our move. Guns drawn, we enter the warehouse, my training taking over—check corners, maintain cover, watch the shadows. But Gregory is long gone, leaving behind only a few cigarette butts and the lingering smell of cheap cologne.

It’s late afternoon when I return to my hotel room, exhausted and frustrated. To my surprise, Celeste is still there, curled up in the armchair, fast asleep. My first instinct is to admire how peaceful she looks, but Lauren’s training kicks in—noting her position—clear view of door and window—the slight bulge in her jacket that could be a weapon, how her hand rests close to her hip even in sleep.

I stand there for a moment, caught between the investigator and the man. In sleep, her usual careful composure is gone, replaced by a vulnerability that tugs at my heart.

“The most dangerous suspects,” Lauren’s voice reminds me, “are the ones who make you forget they’re suspects.”

As if sensing my presence, Celeste stirs, her eyes fluttering open. The transition from sleep to alertness is too quick, too practiced. “Ethan? What time is it?”

“Late afternoon,” I say softly, moving towards her. Every step feels like crossing a line Lauren drew in the sand. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She sits up, and I force myself to analyze her movements with professional detachment. But when our eyes meet, that detachment crumbles like wet paper. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was reviewing more files and I guess I just...”

Her voice trails off as she realizes how close I’m standing. I know I should step back, maintain the distance Lauren drilled into me. But I’m tired of fighting this attraction. Tired of hearing Lauren’s warnings. Tired of being the perfect investigator.

“Celeste,” I murmur, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm under my fingers, soft in a way that makes my heart ache.

She looks up at me, her eyes wide and vulnerable. But is it real vulnerability, or is it calculated? Lauren’s voice fades as I cradle her face in my palms and claim her lips.

The kiss is everything I’ve imagined and nothing like I expected. She responds with an intensity that matches my own, her arms encircling my neck, pulling me closer. Every warning Lauren ever gave me about getting too close to subjects fades into background noise.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Celeste whispers, but she makes no move to pull away.

“No, we shouldn’t have,” I agree, even as I long to kiss her again. I’ve leaped into the abyss, and the only way out is through.

Lauren’s voice is silent now, drowned out by the sound of my heart pounding.

As Celeste gathers her things and slips out the door, I collapse onto the bed, my mind reeling. What have I done? I’ve crossed every line, broken every rule Lauren taught me. The city outside my window comes alive with the night, a siren’s call of danger and desire.

I close my eyes, but all I can see is Celeste’s face, her eyes filled with a mixture of longing and secrets. In that moment, I realize a terrifying truth: She’s a drug I can’t resist, and I’m spiraling into an addiction that could destroy us both.

“Oh, Ethan,” Lauren’s voice sighs one last time. “Some lessons you have to learn the hard way.”

Welcome to rock bottom, Blake. Hope you enjoy your stay.