2. Evangeline
2
EVANGELINE
NOPD SURVEILLANCE REPORT
TIME: 0600
LOCATION: Café du Monde
SUBJECT: E. Blake
Agent continues to exhibit erratic behavior. Third day watching same location. Request guidance re: potential psychological evaluation. No sign of primary target “Ghost.”
NOTE: Subject appeared to have private conversation in empty apartment last night. Possible stress-induced breakdown?
The sweet aroma of beignets and chicory coffee wafts through the air as I slide into my strategically chosen seat at Café du Monde—back to the wall, clear sightlines to both exits, perfect view of Royal Street’s morning chaos.
My skin still tingles from Lucas’s touch hours earlier, his brilliant madness a sharp contrast to the meeting ahead. I adjust my sunglasses, less a shield against the morning sun and more against the memories of the last time I saw Ethan.
His voice, raw with betrayal: “Stay. Please.”
My answer: I ran.
A street performer’s trumpet hits a blue note that twists in my gut as I spot him approaching through the tourist crowd. Three months have carved new lines in Ethan’s face, etched shadows under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights and obsession. His suit, while impeccable, hangs slightly loose—he’s lost weight.
Hunting ghosts will do that to a man.
Especially when the ghost used to share his bed.
I force my fingers to remain steady around my coffee cup, channeling the careful control that Lucas so admires. “Agent Blake? I’m Evangeline Thibodaux. Thank you for meeting me.”
Ethan’s eyes narrow as they sweep over me, and for a heart-stopping moment, I see recognition flicker in their depths. He’s always been too observant for my comfort. “Ms. Thibodaux,” he replies, his voice carrying that same rough edge that used to whisper against my skin in the dark. “I appreciate you agreeing to talk.”
As he sits, I catalogue his changes with a professional eye: the new tension in his shoulders, the way his right hand stays close to his concealed weapon, the slight tremor in his fingers that suggests he’s running on coffee and determination.
This isn’t just about the case anymore. This is personal.
And that makes him infinitely more dangerous.
“So,” I begin, keeping my tone professionally curious, though my pulse quickens as he leans forward, close enough that I catch the familiar scent of his cologne mingled with gunpowder. Some habits never change. “What can I do for the FBI today?”
“I’m investigating the disappearance of a woman named Celeste Deveraux.” His gaze is razor-sharp, dissecting every micro-expression. We used to play this game across the diner counter, him trying to guess my tells over morning coffee. I was better at lying then. I’m exceptional at it now. “I understand you might have some information.”
I tilt my head, letting confusion ripple across my features like rain on water. “Celeste Deveraux?” The name tastes like ashes on my tongue. Like betrayal and midnight escapes. Like the last time I watched him sleep before disappearing into the New Orleans dawn. “I’m not sure I know that name.”
“She worked at the Magnolia Diner,” Ethan presses, and there it is—that familiar intensity that used to set my blood on fire. Still does, if I’m honest. “Disappeared about three months ago.” His jaw tightens. “Right after I gave her a chance to come clean.”
The last part is barely a whisper, meant more for himself than me, but it lands like a punch to the gut. I cover my reaction by pouring more cream into my coffee, watching the white clouds billow and swirl. Like smoke from a gun. Like the fog of lies between us.
“I’m sorry, Agent Blake.” The title feels wrong on my tongue after all the ways I’ve whispered his first name. “I don’t frequent that part of town much.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. Frustration, anger, or something deeper?
“Ms. Thibodaux,” he says, and I watch his knuckles whiten around his untouched coffee cup. “I have reason to believe you might know more than you’re letting on. Celeste’s disappearance... it’s connected to something bigger. Something dangerous.”
I let concern color my voice, though probably not for the reasons he assumes. “Dangerous? What do you mean?”
He hesitates, and I see the war behind his eyes – the professional agent battling the man who once shared my secrets and my bed. “There’s been a string of unexplained deaths. All somehow linked to Celeste.” His voice drops lower, intimate despite the bustling cafe around us. “I need to find her. Before anyone else gets hurt.”
The raw pain in his voice makes me think of Lucas’s warnings about the organization, about the crude copies of my work. About the growing body count. I want to reach across the table, to tell him everything. About who Celeste really is, about why I had to run. But I see the ghost of a gun pressed to my sister’s head every time I close my eyes.
Some secrets are worth dying to protect.
Some secrets are worth letting love die to protect.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, and at least this isn’t a lie. “I wish I could help. But I really don’t know anything about this woman or these deaths.”
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 white noise, 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.
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.