Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

15. Ethan

15

ETHAN

CASE NOTES

Security footage analysis reveals killer’s military-grade training. Agent Blake notes similarity to black ops techniques. Chicago connection strengthens.

The evidence board in my hotel room is a labyrinth of red strings and photographs, each connection bringing me closer to the truth—and further from peace of mind. My own personal web of obsession, growing more tangled with each new detail I add about her. Celeste.

Harsh fluorescent light casts an eerie glow over the images, making the faces seem ghostly and accusing. At the center of it all, a photo of the Magnolia Diner, its neon sign a blur of color against the night sky, and beside it, a picture of Celeste. I’ve spent hours studying this photo, cataloging details like a man possessed.

The way her fingers curl around the coffee pot—too practiced, too precise.

That slight shift in her stance when strangers enter—always ready, always aware.

The careful scan of the room that I first mistook for checking on customers.

Her smile, frozen in time, seems to mock me. Both the detective and the lover in me are transfixed by it, each seeing something different. One sees evidence, the other sees salvation.

As I stare at her photo, a memory washes over me, as vivid as if it were happening now. Celeste and I, laughing on a moonlit walk through the French Quarter, her hand warm in mine. I’d noticed even then how she kept to the shadows instinctively, how her laughter, though genuine, had an edge of calculation. The way she’d looked at me, eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper, something that made my heart race. Her lips, soft against mine, tasting of beignets and promise. The memory is a dagger to my heart, twisting with each passing second.

Minutes tick by, marked by the soft whirring of the air conditioner and the distant jazz notes floating up from the streets below. I find myself lost in thought, adding to my mental catalogue of Celeste-details that don’t add up.

The calluses on her hands that don’t match waitress work.

Her encyclopedic knowledge of local poisons during the bayou case.

The way she fights, moves, thinks like someone trained.

The sky outside my window gradually lightens, inky black giving way to soft pinks and oranges of dawn. I’ve been up all night, leaving Celeste asleep in the middle of the night. Now I am fueled by coffee and determination, my mind a whirlwind of suspicion and longing. The detective in me assembles evidence. The man in me tries to explain it away. Both of us are losing.

I trace a line connecting two photos, my finger lingering on her face. Every new piece of evidence feels like a betrayal, yet I keep collecting them, unable to stop myself. Like a drug I can’t quit, even knowing it might kill me.

Professional observation: Subject displays advanced tactical awareness and combat training.

Personal memory: The way she feels in my arms, soft and warm and real.

FBI Agent’s conclusion: She’s involved.

Lover’s denial: But God, let me be wrong.

Lauren’s voice whispers in my memory: “You always did get too close to your cases, baby.”

Even now, years later, I can hear the fond exasperation in her tone. She would have seen through Celeste immediately. Would have warned me about falling for someone I was investigating.

Just as I’m considering a quick shower to wash away the grime of sleeplessness, my phone buzzes, the vibration against the wooden desk jolting me from my thoughts. It’s Detective Reeves.

“Blake,” I answer, my voice rough from disuse.

“We’ve got movement,” Reeves says without preamble, his gruff voice crackling through the speaker. “Gregory’s crew is mobilizing. Looks like the heist is going down tonight.”

My heart races, a sudden surge of adrenaline chasing away the fatigue of my sleepless night. “Send me the details. I’m on my way.”

As I grab my jacket, the leather cool and smooth against my skin, my eyes fall on Celeste’s photo again. The woman I love. The woman I’m starting to suspect is at the center of everything. Her eyes seem to follow me, filled with secrets I can’t begin to unravel. I feel a pang in my chest, a mixture of love and betrayal that threatens to overwhelm me.

“You’re doing it again,” Lauren’s memory chides gently. “Seeing what you want to see instead of what’s there.” She was always better at separating emotion from evidence. I try to channel her objectivity now, cataloging the facts:

Celeste appears at every major break in the case.

Her fighting style matches witness descriptions.

The timing of disappearances aligns with her schedule.

The way she touched my gun that night, familiar, confident.

I shake my head, trying to focus. I can’t let my personal feelings cloud my judgment. Not now. Lauren died because someone got too close to the truth. The fabric of my shirt clings to my back, damp with nervous sweat as I hurry out the door.

My mental evidence file grows with each step:

How Celeste’s accent slips when she’s tired, revealing something wilder.

The precise way she handles kitchen knives, like weapons.

Her intimate knowledge of poisons and herbs.

The waking nightmares she won’t talk about.

“Follow the evidence,” Lauren’s voice echoes in my head. “No matter where it leads.”

Even if it leads to the woman I love?

Even if it destroys everything?

The early morning streets of New Orleans blur past as I drive, my mind racing faster than my car. Every memory of Celeste now feels like a crime scene I need to reprocess:

The grace of her movements in the bayou.

Her quick thinking under fire.

The way she positions herself in rooms, always aware, always ready.

How she tenses when sirens pass, just slightly, but enough.

Lauren would be disappointed in how long it’s taken me to see it. “Love blinds,” she used to say, “but justice needs clear eyes.” Right now, my eyes are anything but clear when it comes to Celeste.

By the time I arrive at the precinct, the morning rush hour is in full swing. Each step toward the building feels like another step toward an inevitable collision between my heart and my duty.

“Remember what happened last time you ignored your instincts?” Lauren’s voice whispers. I touch the spot where my engagement ring used to sit. Yes, I remember. The price of willful blindness was her life.

But this time... this time the price might be my heart.

Inside the precinct, I’m surrounded by a flurry of activity. The air crackles with tension, the rapid-fire clicking of keyboards and urgent voices creating a cacophony of impending action. Every sound seems to echo the pounding of my heart, the rhythm of secrets about to break open.

“You always said the truth has a sound,” Lauren’s memory whispers. “Like thunder before a storm.” The atmosphere in the precinct feels like that now—the electric charge before lightning strikes.

Phones ring incessantly, adding to the chaotic symphony. Reeves is barking orders, his voice cutting through the din. Officers are suiting up, the sound of Velcro tearing and guns being checked adding to the frenzied atmosphere. I catalog each preparation with the same obsessive detail I’ve been applying to Celeste:

The weight check of bulletproof vests.

The sharp snap of magazines being loaded.

The practiced movements of veteran cops.

In the midst of it all, a file lands on my desk with a thud, the impact sending a small cloud of dust into the air. My heart skips—every new piece of evidence feels like another step toward a truth I’m not sure I want to find.

“New evidence just came in,” Reeves growls, the smell of his strong coffee and stale cigarettes invading my space. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

“Sometimes the worst truths come in manila folders,” Lauren’s voice echoes. I remember her saying that, just days before she died. Before her own case file landed on someone’s desk.

I flip open the file, the crisp paper cool beneath my fingertips, and my blood runs cold. Security camera footage shows a figure slipping into the back of the Magnolia Diner late at night. The timestamp matches the estimated time of death for our latest victim. The grainy black and white image is fuzzy, but there’s something hauntingly familiar about the way the figure moves.

My detective’s mind catalogs the details automatically:

The fluid grace of movement.

The confident handling of the lock.

The awareness of camera angles.

The precise timing between security sweeps.

My heart recognizes other details:

The slight tilt of the head I’ve kissed.

The curve of shoulders I’ve held.

The graceful hands that have touched my face.

The shadow of hair I’ve run my fingers through.

“No,” I mutter, my mind reeling, the word barely a whisper in the noisy room. “It can’t be.”

“It can, and you knew it would be,” Lauren’s voice, gentle but firm. “You’ve known for weeks. You just didn’t want to see it.”

But as I study the image, I can’t deny the familiar grace of the figure’s movements. It’s Celeste. It has to be. The realization hits me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless. My heart clenches, a war raging inside me between the cop who needs answers and the man who’s desperately in love.

I grab my keys, the metal biting into my palm, ignoring Reeves’ shouts behind me. The truth is a physical ache, a void I need to fill before it consumes me. Each step toward my car feels like another step toward destiny—or destruction.

“Don’t go alone,” Lauren’s memory pleads. “You never think straight around her.”

But I have to. Because despite everything—despite the evidence, despite my training, despite Lauren’s warnings echoing in my head—I need to hear it from her lips. I need to look into those eyes I’ve grown to love and know if it was all a lie.

The morning sun feels too bright, too harsh, like it’s illuminating every doubt and fear I’ve been trying to hide. I check my gun, an automatic gesture that feels different now. Will I be able to use it if I have to? Against her?

“You’ll do what needs to be done,” Lauren whispers. “You always do.”

God, I hope she’s wrong.

The drive to the diner seems to take an eternity, the morning traffic crawling at a snail’s pace. I catch myself cataloging every memory of her, like evidence in a case I never wanted to solve:

The way she always positions herself with clear sightlines to exits.

How her hands move with deadly grace, even doing mundane tasks.

The slight pause before she answers questions about her past.

Those nightmares she won’t talk about, that make her reach for weapons that aren’t there.

“Pattern recognition,” Lauren’s voice whispers. “It’s what makes you a good detective. Don’t stop seeing patterns now just because you don’t like what they show.”

By the time I arrive, the lunch rush is in full swing. The bell above the door chimes cheerfully as I enter, a discordant note in the bustling atmosphere. The smell of grilled onions and coffee hangs in the air, usually comforting but now turning my stomach. Everything familiar has become evidence, every memory a potential clue.

Celeste is behind the counter, her face lighting up when she sees me. The sight makes my heart ache, a physical pain in my chest. I catalogue her reaction with professional detachment even as my heart breaks:

The microsecond delay before her smile.

The slight tension in her shoulders.

The way her eyes check my hands, my stance, my expression.

How she’s already planning escape routes, though she thinks I don’t notice.

“Look at how she reads you,” Lauren’s memory presses. “Like a threat assessment. Like someone trained.”

“Ethan,” she says warmly, her voice like honey. “I wasn’t expecting you until later. Is everything okay?”

I take a deep breath, the familiar scent of her perfume—vanilla and jasmine—filling my senses. It’s the same scent that lingers on my pillows, that I associate with comfort and love. Now it feels like a betrayal. Another piece of her carefully constructed cover.

“You’re stalling,” Lauren chides. “Just like you stalled with me, right before everything fell apart.”

“Darling, I’ve been up all night trying to make sense of this.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, strained and desperate. “Please, don’t make me regret trusting you. We need to talk, Celeste. In private.”

A flicker of something—fear? guilt?—crosses her face, but she nods, leading me to the back office. I watch her walk, my detective’s mind never stopping its relentless analysis:

The silent precision of her steps.

How she keeps me in her peripheral vision.

The calculated distance she maintains.

The way her hand brushes her thigh where a weapon might be concealed.

“She moves like I did,” Lauren whispers. “Like someone trained to kill.”

As soon as the door closes behind us, the sounds of the busy diner muffled to a distant hum, I turn to her. The small room feels claustrophobic, the walls seeming to close in. Every instinct screams danger, but I can’t tell if it’s professional awareness or heartbreak talking.

“Celeste, I’m drowning here. Throw me a lifeline of truth.” My voice cracks on her name. Even now, knowing what I know, it feels like a caress. “Where were you really two nights ago, around midnight?”

Celeste’s brow furrows, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her apron. Another tell I’ve categorized: she only fidgets when she’s planning something. “I was here, doing inventory. Why?”

“Notice how smooth the lie comes,” Lauren’s voice whispers. “Like mine did, at the end.”

I pull out the security camera image, the paper crinkling loudly in the tense silence. My hands shake slightly—from exhaustion, from fear, from love, I’m not sure anymore. “Because this shows someone entering the diner at that exact time. Someone who moves an awful lot like you.”

She stares at the image, her face paling. My detective’s mind captures every micro-expression:

The slight dilation of her pupils.

That barely perceptible shift into a defensive stance.

How her breathing changes, becomes more controlled.

The way her eyes map the exits, just like they did in the bayou.

For a moment, I think she might confess everything. But then her expression hardens, her jaw setting in a way I’ve come to recognize as stubborn determination.

God help me, I love even this about her—this steel beneath the silk.

“Ethan, the world isn’t as black and white as you think,” she says, her voice low and intense. “Sometimes, to do what’s right, you have to work in the shadows.”

“That’s what they all say,” Lauren’s memory cuts in. “Right before they put a bullet in your heart.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. The rough texture of my unkempt locks is a testament to the stress of the past few days. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Celeste. I know you’re hiding something. I can feel it. And it’s tearing me apart.”

She steps closer, her eyes pleading. The warmth of her body, so close to mine, is achingly familiar. I catalogue every detail of this moment, knowing it might be our last:

The faint trace of jasmine in her hair.

How her pulse jumps at her throat.

The slight tremor in her hands she’s trying to hide.

The way she watches my every movement, like a dancer anticipating her partner’s steps.

Or like a fighter reading her opponent.

“Don’t let her get too close,” Lauren warns. “She’s most dangerous when she’s being vulnerable.”

“Ethan, please. You know me. You know I could never?—”

The door bursts open, cutting her off. The sudden noise makes us both jump. Her reaction is too quick, too practiced - another piece of evidence I can’t ignore. It’s Jimmy, the short-order cook, the smell of fryer oil clinging to his clothes. “Celeste, there’s some guy out front asking for you. Says his name is Alex?”

I see Celeste freeze, her eyes widening in panic. The color drains from her face, leaving her usually rosy cheeks ashen. As she speaks, I see her hand inch towards the drawer where I know she keeps a spare set of keys. Everything I’ve been trained to notice screams warning:

The immediate combat readiness in her stance.

How she positions herself between me and the door.

The calculated look in her eyes as she assesses options.

The slight shift of weight to her back foot, ready to move.

“Tell him I’m busy,” she says quickly, her voice tight with barely controlled fear.

“Your Lauren died because you were too slow to see the truth,” Lauren’s voice reminds me. “Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

But it’s too late. A man pushes past Jimmy, his green eyes locking onto Celeste with a predatory gleam. The temperature in the room seems to drop, goosebumps rising on my arms. I watch their silent exchange, cataloging every detail:

The immediate recognition in both their stances.

Their matching combat-ready poses.

The way they mirror each other’s movements.

How they both track the nearest weapons.

“Recognize that dance?” Lauren whispers. “It’s how killers acknowledge each other.”

“Well, well,” Alex drawls, his voice oily and grating. “Isn’t this cozy?”

I step forward, my hand instinctively moving to my gun. The cold metal is reassuring against my palm. Old habits from a lifetime of training:

Clear line of sight.

Cover available.

Exit routes mapped.

Threat assessed.

“Alex? What the hell are you doing here?”

Alex smirks, the expression making my skin crawl. It’s a far cry from the charming demeanor he’d shown during our lunch. “Just checking in on an old friend. Right, Celeste? Or should I say, Sarah’s avenging angel?”

The name hits me like a physical blow. Sarah. Celeste’s sister. The one she said was murdered. Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place, and the picture it forms steals my breath.

“The truth always comes for us,” Lauren’s voice echoes. “Just like it came for me.”

I turn to Celeste, confusion and suspicion warring within me. The room seems to spin, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright, too harsh. “Sarah? Celeste, what is he talking about?”

Celeste’s face is a mask of fear and determination. Sweat beads on her upper lip, and I can see her pulse racing in the hollow of her throat. But beneath the fear, I see something else—something deadly and familiar. The look of a predator about to strike.

“She’s got the same look I had,” Lauren warns. “Right before I pulled my gun on you.”

“Alex, don’t. Please.” Celeste’s voice holds a note I’ve never heard before—raw and dangerous. Like a cornered animal ready to fight.

But Alex isn’t finished. He turns to me, his smile cruel, teeth gleaming unnaturally white under the flickering lights. “Remember our chat about justice, Agent Blake? Well, here’s a front-row seat to it in action.”

I feel like I’m drowning, each revelation pulling me further under. Alex is the one who has been texting me? The air in the small office feels thick, hard to breathe. Celeste’s eyes dart between us, a cornered animal looking for escape. My training catalogs her options even as my heart breaks:

Drawer with potential weapon: 2 feet to her left.

Window: possible escape route.

Door: blocked by Alex.

Me: the wild card she never planned for.

“Celeste, what’s going on here?”

“Choose carefully,” Lauren whispers. “Your next move could be your last.”

She looks between Alex and me, her eyes wild. I catalog each micro-expression like collecting evidence:

The slight twitch in her jaw.

How her fingers flex, ready for action.

The way her breathing changes, becomes controlled.

That deadly focus I’ve seen before but chose to ignore.

“You saw these signs with me,” Lauren’s voice reminds me. “You just didn’t want to believe them then either.”

Finally, Celeste speaks, her voice barely above a whisper, rough with emotion. “Ethan, I can explain everything. But not here. Not now.”

Alex laughs, the sound harsh in the tense room, grating against my nerves like sandpaper. “Oh, this is rich. The vigilante and the FBI agent, star-crossed lovers.” His eyes gleam with malice. “But time’s up, Cel. I need your help, and if you don’t give it, I’ll tell your boy toy here everything.”

“He’s giving you an out,” Lauren whispers. “Take it. Don’t make my mistake.”

I’ve had enough. I draw my gun, the sound of the safety clicking off unnaturally loud in the small space. The weight is familiar in my hands, but pointing it at this room’s occupants feels wrong in every way. My training fights with my heart:

Clear shot at Alex.

Celeste in peripheral vision.

Both displaying combat readiness.

Both likely armed.

“This room becomes a fortress until I hear the truth,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Every last bitter drop of it.”

“Watch her,” Lauren warns. “She’s about to move.”

For a moment, the room is frozen in a tableau of tension. The only sound is our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the diner’s refrigerators. I see the decision form in Celeste’s eyes a split second before she acts. The same look Lauren had, that final night.

Then, faster than I can react, Celeste moves.

She’s a blur of motion, her movements fluid and precise. Training kicks in as I catalog even this:

Military grade hand-to-hand.

Advanced disarmament technique.

Killing efficiency in every move.

Beautiful even now, God help me.

Before I can blink, she has closed the distance between us. Her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising strength. I feel a sharp twist, pain shooting up my arm. The gun clatters to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space.

“Just like I did,” Lauren’s voice says sadly. “Love makes us hesitate.”

But Celeste isn’t done. In one smooth motion, she spins, her body pressing against mine. Her elbow connects with my solar plexus, driving the air from my lungs. As I gasp, struggling to breathe, she sweeps my legs out from under me.

I hit the floor hard, my head cracking against the linoleum. Stars explode behind my eyes. Through the haze of pain and shock, I see Celeste standing over me, my gun in her hand. Her face is a mask of regret and determination.

“I’m sorry, Ethan,” she says, her eyes shining with unshed tears. The gun looks wrong in her delicate hands, hands I’ve held, hands I’ve kissed. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Neither did I,” Lauren whispers. “But we all make our choices.”

Before I can respond, she brings the butt of the gun down on my temple. There’s a moment of searing pain, the taste of copper flooding my mouth. Then the world goes black, the darkness swallowing me whole.

As consciousness slips away, my last thought is of Celeste—not the woman who just betrayed me, but the woman I fell in love with. In that final moment before oblivion claims me, I realize that despite everything, I still love her.

“Love’s what got us both killed,” Lauren’s voice fades with my consciousness. “You just haven’t realized you’re dead yet.”

And that, more than anything, is what truly terrifies me.