10. Evangeline
10
EVANGELINE
PORT AUTHORITY INCIDENT REPORT Location: Warehouse 23 Incident Type: Suspected Homicide
Body discovered matches MO of previous “natural causes” deaths. Victim (H. Perkins) connected to multiple shell companies owned by [REDACTED].
Note: Medical examiner L. Gautier requesting exclusive access to autopsy. Request approved by Councilman Davis.
“Power lies in what they don’t expect, child. A pretty face, a soft smile – these are weapons sharper than any blade.” Grandmother’s voice echoes in my mind as I study my reflection in the Gardenia Club’s gilded mirrors.
A crystal vase of winter jasmine catches my eye, and for a moment, I’m lost in memories of afternoons in Grandmother’s greenhouse. Before everything changed, I’d wanted to follow in her footsteps—not just with herbs and healing, but with the science behind it all. I’d been accepted to LSU’s botany program the week Celeste died. The acceptance letter still lives in a box under my bed, unopened dreams yellowing with age.
The woman staring back at me now is a stranger—platinum blonde bob sharp as a knife’s edge, emerald gown that whispers old money and darker promises. Caroline Maxwell, recently divorced socialite with more money than sense and a weakness for powerful men. Another mask, another dance, another step closer to justice.
I touch the delicate jasmine blooms, remembering how I used to press flowers between the pages of my biology textbooks. Sarah Deveraux had loved winter best, dreamed of seeing real snow someday. She’d started planning a trip to Vermont for Christmas break, saving tips from her waitressing job in a jar labeled “Snow Fund.”
That jar still sits on my shelf, half-full of wrinkled bills. Sometimes I wonder if Sarah’s still in there too, buried under all these masks I wear. The girl who loved the crack of autumn leaves under her feet, who spent hours sketching the molecular structures of healing herbs, who wanted nothing more than to understand the science behind her grandmother’s magic.
But that girl feels as foreign to me now as this platinum wig and designer dress.
The Gardenia Club lives up to its reputation. Crystal chandeliers cast honeyed light across marble floors, transforming New Orleans’ elite into glittering mannequins. The air is thick with perfume, privilege, and secrets. My hunting ground for the evening.
My target, Harold Perkins, stands near the bar. The organization’s financial mastermind, the man whose signature appears on documents that authorized cleaning crews in the bayou. His perfectly tailored suit can’t hide the slight tremor in his hand as he argues with someone I don’t recognize—a tall man with silver hair and an air of authority that makes my instincts buzz with warning.
I adjust my wig, feeling the reassuring press of the poisoned ring against my finger. Alex’s voice whispers from the past: “Become the person they expect to see, little shadow. Their expectations are their weakness.”
But tonight, something feels different. The usual cold focus that accompanies my hunts is replaced by an unsettling hum of questions I’ve never thought to ask. Questions not just about Celeste’s death, but about Sarah’s life —the one I packed away with those college acceptance letters and snow-fund dreams.
Moving through the crowd feels like a dance I’ve performed too many times. Each step calculated, each smile measured. But tonight, my mind keeps drifting to other dances—spinning through fallen leaves with Celeste, both of us laughing as we tried to catch them. The way snow must dance as it falls, a sight I still haven’t seen.
“Champagne, darling?” A waiter materializes beside me.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” I take a glass, letting my acquired Southern drawl drip like honey. The champagne bubbles remind me of the way I used to mix solutions in chemistry class, watching reactions spark and fizz. I’d been good at it—really good. My teacher had written recommendations for research programs, talked about scholarships and futures I never got to explore.
The silver-haired man stalks away from Perkins, leaving him visibly shaken. Perfect timing. I make my way to the bar, deliberately catching Perkins’ eye as I perch on a barstool. He takes the bait almost immediately, just like the garden snakes I used to catch and release as a child, much to Grandmother’s amusement.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Harold Perkins.”
“Caroline Maxwell.” I extend my hand, noting how his gaze lingers on the dramatic slit of my emerald gown. The color reminds me of the herb garden in spring, of dreams about greenhouses and research labs, of a future where Sarah Deveraux would have helped people heal instead of hunting those who hurt them.
“Indeed it is.” He signals the bartender. “Allow me to buy you a proper drink. That champagne looks rather lonely.”
I laugh, the sound practiced and hollow—nothing like the snorting giggles Celeste used to tease me about. “Careful, Mr. Perkins. A girl might think you have ulterior motives.”
A security guard passes too close, his eyes narrowing slightly. I force myself to remain relaxed, though my pulse quickens. The ring on my right hand holds enough poison to drop a man in seconds. Once, I would have used these same plants to heal. Grandmother had taught us both sides of nature’s gifts—life and death growing from the same soil. I’d chosen which path to nurture.
“Please, call me Harold.” Perkins leans closer, lowering his voice. “And perhaps I do have ulterior motives. It’s been a rather trying evening—I could use some... pleasant company.”
The silver-haired man reappears at the edge of my vision. I need to move this along, but something about him tugs at a memory I can’t quite grasp. One of Grandmother’s lessons maybe—about how certain plants can trigger memories long buried. I used to be fascinated by the neuroscience behind it, had started a research paper on memory and molecular structures that now sits unfinished in a drawer with Sarah’s other abandoned dreams.
“Well then, Harold,” I purr, pushing away thoughts of who I used to be, “why don’t we find somewhere more private to discuss those motives?”
He leads me down a corridor lined with old photographs of New Orleans’ historic houses. My heels click against hardwood floors as we climb a curved staircase to the club’s private rooms. Each step feels like a countdown—or maybe like climbing the stairs to my old high school lab, where I’d spend lunch breaks conducting extra experiments, dreaming of breakthroughs and Nobel prizes.
“You know,” Perkins says as he unlocks a door, “you remind me of someone. Years ago, there was this girl...”
I freeze. The tone in his voice sends ice down my spine.
“Sarah Deveraux,” he continues, turning to face me. “Such a tragic story. She had the same way of tilting her head when she smiled.” His eyes harden. “The same way you’re tilting yours right now.”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. And in this moment, I realize with stunning clarity—he doesn’t see Celeste in me at all. He sees Sarah. The real Sarah. The one I killed as surely as they killed my sister.
“How interesting.” My voice remains steady as I step into the room, but inside, everything is shifting. “Tell me more about this Sarah.”
He follows me in, closing the door. “I think you know exactly who Sarah Deveraux was.” His hand moves toward his jacket. “The question is, who are you?”
Who am I? The question echoes like a gunshot. I’m the girl who wanted to unlock nature’s secrets, who dreamed of combining Grandmother’s traditional knowledge with modern science. I’m the teenager who spent hours calculating the exact altitude where snow forms, planning trips I’ll never take. I’m Sarah, who died the night Celeste did, who became a shadow of her sister instead of living her own life.
But right now, I’m what Alex made me—a weapon.
I don’t give him time to reach whatever he’s going for. The ring connects with his neck as I surge forward, using his own momentum against him. His eyes widen in shock as the poison enters his system—a poison I once understood purely for its molecular beauty, not its capacity to kill.
“I’m the ghost of all the girls you helped destroy,” I whisper as he stumbles. “The ones who disappeared into the bayou. The ones whose deaths you helped cover up with your money and your influence.”
He tries to speak, but his muscles are already failing. I catch him before he falls, guiding his body to an armchair. The movement is practiced, clinical—but for the first time, I feel the ghost of Sarah’s scientific mind analyzing the process. Watching the poison’s progression with a detached fascination that has nothing to do with vengeance and everything to do with pure biochemistry.
“Goodbye, Harold,” I say softly, adjusting his collar to hide the tiny puncture mark. “Give my regards to the devil.”
In minutes, it will look like a heart attack—just another wealthy man who pushed himself too hard. The perfect chemical reaction. Once, I would have been excited to understand the molecular dance happening in his cells. Now I just use it to kill.
I leave through the private exit, my hands steady but my mind fracturing like a broken test tube. The information I found in his phone will help dismantle the organization, but at what cost? Not just to my soul, but to the bright-eyed girl who once wanted to heal the world instead of poisoning it.
The night air hits my face as I emerge into a side alley. I strip off the platinum wig, letting my dark hair fall free. Behind me, the first shouts of alarm begin to rise from the Gardenia Club. Somewhere in my apartment, an acceptance letter yellows in its envelope, and a jar of saved money waits for snow that Sarah will never see.
“Sarah Deveraux,” he had said. “Such a tragic story.”
He had no idea how tragic. Because in avenging Celeste’s death, I’d killed Sarah just as surely as they’d killed my sister. Killed her dreams, her future, her very essence. Turned her scientific mind toward death instead of life, her love of plants into weapons instead of healing.
My phone buzzes.
Jazz: You ok, Melody?
Another buzz.
Lucas: My Chimera, your molecules feel troubled tonight.
I stare at their messages, my throat tight. They each have their name for me—Melody, Chimera—but neither of them ever knew Sarah. The girl who could have been something more than a weapon, something better than a ghost.
For the first time since Celeste died, I let myself really feel the loss—not just of my sister, but of myself. Of snow funds and research papers, of botanical sketches and chemistry experiments. Of a future where Sarah Deveraux might have made the world better instead of just less evil.
I text back.
Me: I’m fine. Just... questioning everything.
And I am. Every death, every step closer to what I thought was justice, has actually been leading me down a path I’m not sure I want to follow. Because if Perkins could see Sarah in me after all these years... what parts of her might still be alive under all these masks?
“Oh, Celeste,” I whisper to the night air, “what were you really involved in? And what did I give up to avenge you?”
The night wraps around me like a burial shroud as I walk deeper into the Quarter’s shadows. Behind me, sirens wail toward the Gardenia Club. Another death in my wake, but this time, instead of satisfaction, all I feel is loss—not just for the sister I’m avenging, but for the sister I let die inside myself.
And the biggest question of all: If I finally get the answers I’m looking for, will there be anything left of Sarah to reclaim?