Page 27 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

RED PETALS & PAPER TRAILS

Maggie

A week of cops posted outside my house and I still didn’t feel safe.

They said I wasn’t a prisoner, but I sure as hell felt like one—trapped behind my own walls, watched from the shadows by people with badges and names I didn’t know.

Every knock made me flinch. Every creak in the floorboards sent my mind spiraling back to the fact that I walked away.

Graham didn’t. Derek didn’t. Even Katie got knocked out.

I didn’t get hurt when this whole fucking thing was about me.

Katie called every day. I answered—mostly—and let her talk while I listened to her voice and counted the water stains on the ceiling.

She kept trying to crack jokes, tell me things about her cat, and check on Chester to lighten the weight pressing down on both of us.

I appreciated the effort. Didn’t make it any easier to let her back in, though.

I’d nearly gotten her killed. I wasn’t ready for her to get close. Getting close got people hurt.

So, I did what I could. I signed up for self-defense classes and ordered one of those keychains made for women who walk to their cars with their hearts in their throats. Mace. Siren. Taser. It arrived two days ago in a pink bubble-mailer that said Stay Fierce . I didn’t even open it right away.

I wasn’t scared. Not exactly.

I was angry.

Angry at whoever had sent a monster to my door. At myself for freezing. At how it all kept playing in my head, like my trauma had a fucking director’s cut.

But mostly? I hated that I still didn’t know why.

That kind of ignorance doesn’t go away with security cameras and blanket statements from a tired captain.

It festers.

Every evening, the shower trapped me—just me and the water and everything I didn’t want to remember.

I let it scald, let it beat down on me like it could strip the night from my skin.

But it never did. By the time the heat started to fade, the memories were already crawling in.

The wet snap of a gunshot. The way his body crumpled.

The sound his broken head made when it hit the ground.

This daily routine was my attempt at erasing the trauma. To scrub away the fear. The shame. The guilt of walking away in one piece when no one else had.

But darkness waited just outside the steam. It always did. And it always followed me back out.

While Katie was at the hospital, she checked on Derek—who’d apparently gotten into it with the medical staff.

Something about refusing pain meds and threatening to walk out instead.

After an intense standoff, they released him into the care of a “responsible adult.” Katie filled Laila in on everything, and I had to imagine Laila as grateful she’d skipped the séance that started it all.

God only knew what kind of chaos we actually woke up.

My surveillance team had become weirdly comforting and constant—always hovering, always watching, but at least it meant I could start settling back in.

When my belongings finally arrived, they helped unpack, meticulously searching through every box like I’d smuggled in explosives.

It was surreal, standing there while they rifled through my life, holding up a contraband of smutty books and bath bombs.

I knew why they were doing it. Someone could have planted something, but as I leaned on the porch railing, my curiosity quickly edged toward anxiety, waiting for something—anything—to go wrong.

That’s when a well-maintained old Ford pickup pulled up the drive.

It looked like it was the kind I remembered from the early 90s.

I had some good memories with my dad in his.

Dad’s was kind of a brown color, I remembered small orange and white pinstripes and brown vinyl seats that roasted your ass if you hopped in too quick on a hot summer day.

I watched as the black truck rolled to a stop. This one wasn’t anything like my dad’s. This one was black, the engine sounded a little more… growly—maybe—and it was bigger, possibly the next size up.

It was kind of sexy.

Of course it was, because when the door opened out stepped Graham Locke.

God, he’s fine.

His limp was subtle, but it was there, pulling tight across his stride.

No uniform—just a plain black T-shirt and jeans—but the badge clipped to his belt and the gun in his leg holster said he hadn’t exactly clocked out.

The other officers greeted him with warm nods and half-smiles, glad to see him vertical again.

And then… They found the pink toolbox.

Not the one for nails and screws.

The toolbox.

My cheeks flared so fast and hot they could’ve boiled water. I crossed my arms tight over my chest as one officer opened the box, blinked, and immediately looked like he was trying not to laugh. Another elbowed his buddy. Suppressed snorts. Raised brows. A half-choked “ Hoo boy .”

I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

Graham’s gaze dropped to the box. He didn’t flinch. Just stared. Calm and unbothered. Like he was doing recon on a suspicious package—one shaped exactly like a bright purple silicone nightmare.

The officer reached in slowly, theatrically, and pulled out a toy with a grip so dainty it might as well have been an offering.

It was fucking vibrating!

Graham— of course— put on a blue nitrile glove, and picked it up. Held it. Turned it over in his hand like he was inspecting a weapon and shut it off.

And I swear to God, he glanced at me and gave the dirties fucking smirk.

He slid it back into the toolbox, closed the lid with a soft click, and mouthed something to the rookie officer—probably a private joke.

The kind that didn’t need words. Then he headed for the porch, toolbox in hand, wearing an unmistakable air of amusement.

His smile hinted at all the ways he was enjoying this far too much.

“Hi, Maggie,” he said, voice dipping into flirtation, while he handed me what would ultimately be my demise.

I took the box, fingers curling around the cool metal handle, and set it behind me, pretending that didn’t just happen.

“Hi… Graham.” I tried to sound casual, but failed. My face was already on fire.

And all I could think about?

Those toys. With him.

God help me.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” I said, swallowing my fantasies.

He nodded. ‘Me too. Knife missed everything.”

“So… are you here to watch me?”

It came out too sharp, too fast—like I needed to cut through the tension or choke on it.

His smirk returned, slow and wide.

“With those?” He nodded to the box.

My stomach dropped. “What? Oh God—no! I mean, yes—I mean—not like?—”

I covered my face and wanted to disappear. Preferably into the toolbox.

He laughed, knowing exactly what he was doing. “No, Maggie. I’m just messing with you.”

Noticing my distress, he cleared his throat and shifted his voice to something less flirty and more serious. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t professional.”

I peeked through my fingers. “No, it wasn’t. But when have you been capable of professional?” I jousted.

But I wasn’t mad. Not really. His demeanor had softened. No edge. Just… human.

“Forgive me?” He asked.

I looked up. Really looked at him. He was still pale. Still healing. Still too good-looking for his own damn good.

And if he’d wanted to take that flirting further?

Yeah, I wouldn’t have stopped him.

Not because I was in love. Please. I hadn’t had sex in over a week, and I was touch-starved enough to start fantasizing about my own toolbox. Back home, I had a once-a-day minimum. But out here? Between attempted murder and ghost sightings?

I was lucky if I remembered I even had a clit.

Graham

I shifted my weight, the porch creaking under my boots as I stepped forward. The blue folder felt worn in my hand—creased, soft at the corners. I’d opened it a dozen times since Nettles handed it to me, and every time, the contents sat heavier in my gut.

“Maggie,” I said, my voice came out rough, like the tightness in my chest. “Cap sent this over.”

She looked at it like it might bite her, then glanced toward the open door. I nodded—not pushing, just… offering. Inside was safer. And warmer. And I’d be damned if she was going to stand out here hearing what I had to say.

As soon as we stepped in, the king of the manor greeted me by climbing up my pants leg and into my free arm. God, those little shivs were sharp.

Maggie just stared at me. Then Chester. Then back to me.

“Did you drug my cat? Normally, he hates strangers.” She said, eyebrows crinkled together.

“Thought we weren’t going to be strangers?” I could feel that fucking smirk spread across my face, the one that got me into trouble. I gave Chester a few good scritches under his chin—enough to get his motor going, then set him down.

“Right.” She said.

We moved to the dining room. The table was still half-covered in boxes and loose packing paper, her life spilled out in fragments.

I cleared a space and pulled a chair out for her.

She hesitated, then sat, eyes flicking up to me.

I didn’t say anything—just opened the envelope carefully. No reason to rush.

I laid the contents out on the table. Photos, reports, bits of evidence Nettles thought useful. I didn’t bother with the paperwork yet. She wasn’t in the headspace for jargon. I went for the truth—the part she needed to see.

“These are from different cities. Three scenes. Same M.O.” I pointed to the photos—bodies laid out like props, hands behind their backs, throats slit clean and deep.

Mouths stuffed with roses. And the same hollowed-out chest cavity.

No panic. No remorse. Just a message. “We’re still piecing it together, but whoever did this… they weren’t improvising.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. I watched her, watched the color drain from her face. I didn’t blame her. Hell, I’d seen this shit a hundred times, and it still turned my stomach. But this—this was personal. Because that bastard had almost added her to the collection.

Maggie swallowed, her fingers curling against the wood grain. “Did Custer… kill them?”

I shook my head, jaw tight. “Not those. But the guy in your woods? Yeah. He left enough DNA behind to convict himself twice.”

I reached into the envelope again and slid out the business card—dirty, creased, the kind you forget in your wallet until it bleeds through your laundry.

“Same card was found at each scene. Back has a number scrawled in ballpoint pen.”

Her gaze locked onto it.

“Whose number?”

Her face paled, and I knew she didn’t need me to explain it.

“Lines been dead a while. Nobody paid the bill. But that number keeps showing up, like a breadcrumb trail.”

She leaned back, silent, thinking—processing. Then: “Maybe they don’t know he’s dead. Maybe they think I’m going to find something.”

I nodded slowly. “Or maybe they do know. And that’s exactly why they’re watching you.”

Her eyes met mine. Searching. “What do they want?”

I leaned forward, locking eyes with her. “Something Silas had. Something he didn’t tell you about. Maybe he left it here. Maybe it’s hidden in this house. And until they find it… they’re not going to stop.”

Her voice cracked. “I just want this over, Graham. I can’t keep doing this—waiting to be next.”

I let my hand rest near hers—not quite touching, but close enough she’d know I would if she needed it.

“I know,” I said, quiet but firm. “But I’m not going anywhere. You’re not gonna do this alone.”

Maggie sat back in her chair, gave me a look, and crossed her arms.

“Okay, then… I need you to believe me when I tell you I saw my uncle’s ghost that night. And I think if we could contact him, we could get some serious answers.”

I ran a hand through my hair and leaned against the table, trying to rein in the frustration crawling up my spine. She really believed this ghost stuff. And hell, maybe she wasn’t wrong. But I couldn’t say it out loud. Not yet. Not when my career was already hanging by a thread.

“Maggie,” I said. “You want to talk to ghosts, that’s your call. But until then, you need to take your safety seriously.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out a ridiculous-looking keychain—a pink thing the size of a softball, weighed down by god-knows-what. She dropped it onto the table with a clunk.

“I did,” she said, chin raised. “Look.”

I blinked. There was mace, a taser, a pointed window breaker, some metal cat knuckles, and one of those little high- pitched alarm squealers. Oh, and a fuzzy pink puffball the size of a raccoon’s ass.

I picked it up, turning it over in my hand. “Okay, so maybe the mace’s got potential. And the taser or the stabby thing… yeah, if you get close enough. Kitty knuckles, sure. But this?” I dangled the puffball between two fingers. “You planning on tickling the guy into submission?”

“That’s decoration,” she snapped, snatching it from me.

I smirked, but my tone stayed dead serious. “All of that is close-range defense. You never let an attacker get close enough to use it. That’s the trick.”

She hesitated, her eyes flickering to the stupid puffball she clenched in her fist. I could practically see the wheels turning—her stubborn pride warring with the part of her that knew she was standing on the edge of something a hell of a lot more dangerous than she wanted to admit.

I didn’t blame her.

Hell, I respected it. But respect wasn’t going to keep her alive.

I shifted my weight, feeling the pull in my ribs where the stitches were still raw.

“Come to the range with me this afternoon,” I said, keeping my voice even. Non-negotiable. “I’ll teach you how to shoot. Help you get your aim under control.”

“But I don’t have a gun.”

“That’s alright. Doesn’t hurt to learn. You need distance. Control. A plan.” I nodded toward the pile of keychain crap in her hand. “This stuff is fine for backup. But I want you to have more than just a puffball between you and the next psycho that walks through your door.”

She swallowed hard. She wasn’t scared of the gun. She was scared of needing it.

I got that too.

She sat there for another second, breathing hard, like she was bracing herself for a hit. Then she gave a tight, reluctant nod.

“Okay.”

Something clicked deep in my chest.

Something I hadn’t felt in a decade.

Territorial. Dangerous. Dominant.

It stirred low and hot, right beneath the surface.

“Good girl.”