Page 101 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

THE CALL

Maggie

The music pulsed through the floor, vibrating up my spine like a second heartbeat that wanted out. Strobe lights flashed in bursts of color, catching on glitter, sweat and teeth bared in laughter that I didn’t feel a part of.

Katie and Derek were off somewhere bouncing with the rest of the club, moving like they were one with it. Katie had cut her hair—again—now sporting a neon pink pixie cut. If she kept this up she’ll have shaved it by next week—but honestly, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

When I first met Derek, he didn’t strike me as a club guy, but he danced like he didn’t give a shit, and always had a great time. He’d been really great about anchoring me when I’d spiral, becoming a true friend, right alongside Katie.

Me? I sat at the bar nursing my second drink of the evening—a French 75. It was my first time having it. It was tart, and sweet, and looked just fancy enough to fool people into thinking I wasn’t wallowing. Even though I was. Hard.

Derek said Graham went back home—to Colorado.

He’d called him from some diner halfway there and explained everything.

So much for goodbyes. So much for keeping me safe.

Once I found out, I begged Derek to take me to his place.

Graham had never taken me. But when I arrived, it was in shambles, reeking of whiskey and pain.

We cleaned up the mess, boarded up the windows, and shut the place down like a vacation home at the end of the season. I didn’t know if he was coming back, but if he was—even if it wasn’t for me—he deserved to sleep in a bed without raccoons.

The bartender, Jake, set a glass of something dark in front of me.

I took a sip.

“Espresso Martini,” he said. “helps wake the dead.”

“I don’t need any help with that.” I muttered, taking a sip.

That was different, it made me open my eyes, made me breathe again.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

Glancing up at the TV mounted above the display of liquor bottles I noticed the local news was on. Port Grey’s finest station. I didn’t know why they even bothered. You couldn’t hear a word of it and had to read the subtitles that always seemed to be two sentences behind.

Normally, it boasted overconfident fishing reports and weather updates. Not tonight.

My drink froze halfway to my lips as the anchor’s expression turned somber.

“Recent developments tonight in the Valmont investigation. Sources confirmed that recently deceased socialite, Portia Valmont, may have had ties to convicted cult leader, Jonathan Belvedere, who died in a brutal attack in federal prison last year.”

I blinked. “ What? ”

Portia told Graham it was a heart attack. And wouldn’t someone being sentenced to federal prison make the news? The internet showed no results for him at all.

A photo flashed on screen—an old, grainy image of Portia standing beside a much younger man. Dark suit, smug smile, eyes like blackened holes. Belvedere for sure.

“Jonathan Belvedere was known for leading what federal investigators called a ‘bloodline harvesting cult,’ targeting those with alleged ‘magical traits’ . Speculation now swirls about whether Portia Valmont had been aiding his efforts in recent years.”

Are you fucking kidding me? They knew!? They must have sealed the files. Had his record wiped from the internet, the newspaper records, everything. How? Why?—

My phone buzzed in my purse. I jumped.

Unknown Number.

I declined it.

Buzz—.

Again. Same number.

Decline.

Buzz—.

Jesus Christ!

Then a text.

Unknown:

Answer.

Derek gave me your number.

It’s important.

My chest tightened. I looked across the club and spotted Katie and Derek still dancing, lost in the music. Why was he giving out my number to complete strangers?

The phone rang again.

This time, I answered.

“Hello?”

A woman’s nervous voice crackled through. “Hi—uh, I’m sorry to bother you, my name is Lauren DeSoto.” She babbled unsure of herself, “I was at one of Derek’s paranormal research groups the other night, and gave me your number. He said you… could help me?”

That caught me off guard. “O-okay? I guess it depends on the kind of help you need.”

“It’s probably nothing,” she said, breathless. “But there’s something in my garage. It’s not mice. Or a raccoon. I hear it at night. Something dragging. Something breathing. I—I think it’s a ghost. I think it’s my husband.”

I blinked, sitting up a little straighter. Was the liquor finally getting to me? “I’m sorry… your husband?”

“Yes. He died in February. They said it was a stroke, but he was fit as a fiddle with perfect blood pressure.” Her voice cracked. “Well, anyway, I never got to say goodbye. But I think he’s stuck.”

The chaos of the club melted around me. No more pounding music. No more drinks. Just the fragile tremble of someone trying to make sense of the impossible.

“I don’t really… know how I could help you.” I said, trepidation caught in my throat.

“Oh, Derek said you were psychic… Oh well, that’s alright. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Wait—” I said, hoping she was still there. “I don’t know if psychic is the right word, but… what’s your address? Maybe I could stop by tomorrow… take a look around?”