Page 42 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

WEARING HIS SKIN

Maggie

It was a Saturday night, so the precinct was busy, which made sense.

But this wasn’t bar fight or DUI busy, this was dark secrets trying to stay hidden busy.

Squad cars came and went as usual, but a sleek black limo waited outside, engine still running.

Lawyers milled about, pacing wherever there was space—this was suits and secrets, the things someone didn’t want out in the open. That alone made my stomach twist.

Graham exhaled beside me. “Oh, that’s never good. When the rich bark demands of secrecy, drama’s not far behind, and the mayor’s pocketbook is most likely going to be filled.”

“That says a lot,” Derek muttered. “Considering the whole damn town’s rich.”

“It’s just one giant circle jerk of politicians and public service workers.” Graham said.

“That’s… a visual.” I said under my breath, my face twisting to erase it from my mind.

We stepped inside. The air hit us—dry and hot, and smelling like too many bodies in one place—maybe even the essence of the circle jerk. Officers brushed past us. A woman in a pantsuit argued into her phone. Somewhere, a copier was jamming, but no one gave two shits.

It was chaos. But not the normal kind. Something was off. My gut knew it before I did.

I stayed close to Graham as we made our way through the horde. He didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said much since we left the house. His steps were steady, but… shallow. Like he wasn’t fully here.

Don’t you leave me.

Then he stepped through the lobby doors.

“Max, I?—”

And he was down.

My whole body jolted. “Fuck,” I mouthed, already reaching for him. His knees hit the tile hard.

“Graham!”

Derek and I moved in without thinking. He was heavy before, but as dead weight, he was goddamn immovable. Together, we managed to get him to his feet, but as we moved his legs barely cooperated.

“You good, Big Guy?” Derek asked, steadying him with a grunt.

Graham coughed out something like a laugh. “Oh, Derek. You know I love it when you take control.” His voice was slurred, a little too loose.

I watched his face. Pale and sweating.

“I just… feel a little—” his eyes squeezed shut. One hand flew up over his mouth.

Shit. He’s gonna be sick.

My eyes swept the lobby—bathroom, closet, hallway, anything.

There. Off to the right.

“Derek, this way!” I hissed, tugging at Graham’s firm bicep and steering him toward the hallway.

But he jerked back.

“Cease this instant.” His voice was flat, clipped, proper, and not his.

I froze.

Son-of-a-bitch.

He turned to me—eyes glowing green again.

“Just turbulence,” he said, but the smile wasn’t his either.

“Uncle Silas?” The name fell from my mouth.

“Yes, dear?” Graham’s body straightened, his posture rigid and chin held high. Definitely not Graham.

I sighed. “Uncle Silas, seriously? Now? We were going to get your file. We had a plan.”

“Pardon me, madam,” he said, folding Graham’s hands neatly in front of him, “but I am fully aware of this plan. However, since Portia’s limo is here, I thought it only proper to say hello. And inquire about my cane.”

I blinked. “You took over Graham’s body for a fucking cane?” I rubbed my brow. “Are you serious?”

“Well, yes,” he said, utterly unbothered. “No one knows it’s really me. They all think I’m him. So what, precisely, is the issue?”

My mouth opened, then closed. This was happening. In public. In a police station. While Graham’s body paraded around like a freaking aristocrat.

“What are you doing here, Locke?” a gruff voice said from behind us.

I turned—Captain Nettles stood there, jaw clenched, eyes already narrowing.

Uncle Silas lit up. “Jethro! How splendid to see you!”

Before I could stop him, he wrapped his arms around the captain and pulled him into a hug.

Oh no.

“Locke! What the hell’s the matter with you?” Nettles shoved him back a full step.

“Oh—I, uh—sorry, boss,” Uncle Silas stammered, quickly lowering his voice into a passable imitation of Graham’s gruff tone. “Dunno what came over me.” He sniffed, wiped his nose, and then—God help me—adjusted himself.

Derek stared. I probably did too. The captain looked like he’d just been groped by a mime.

“Don’t let it happen again,” Nettles said through gritted teeth, yanking his tie straighter. “Since you’re here, I’ve got an update on Miss Maxwell’s case.”

My chest tightened. Finally.

“Portia Valmont’s here,” he continued. “Claims she has information about the night you were attacked. We’re looking into whether she might’ve been involved.”

Uncle Silas dropped the act. “ My Portia?”

The captain paused, brow twitching. “Yes?—?”

“I mean… the Portia ? The one who paints everyone’s ancestors like they’re royalty?”

“The very same,” Captain Nettles said, jerking his thumb toward the interrogation room.

I followed his gesture.

Portia Valmont sat behind the glass—sixties, maybe older. Hair pulled tight in a ballerina bun, neck wrapped in pearls like a noose made of money. She lifted a slender cigarette holder to her lips and took a long, unbothered drag.

“Goddamn it,” the captain muttered. “I told her there’s no smoking in the precinct.”

He spun on his heel and shoved through the crowd of officers, steam practically rolling off him.

“We’re about to question her,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Locke, I want you in there with me.”

Shit.

I grabbed Graham—Uncle Silas—by the shoulders before he could follow.

“You can’t interrogate her.”

He raised a brow. “And why not?”

Then, without warning, he grabbed my wrists and pushed my hands down to my sides. Not violent—but firm. Too firm for how Graham touched me.

“I’ve been a part of this precinct for over fifty years,” he declared. “I’ve interrogated more suspects than you’ve?—”

“ But you’re not you!” Derek cut in, stepping forward.

“Exactly,” I said. “You’re Graham Locke right now. And if you keep playing him like a theatrical puppet, he’s going to lose his chance at making detective.”

Uncle Silas sighed. “Oh, tish-tosh. You worry too much. I’ll be on my best behavior. I’ve watched this young stud work—I can play dumb.”

“Look, Silas.” Derek’s voice dropped low.

Dead serious now. “If you go in there and slip—if the captain figures out Graham’s possessed—he’ll be put on leave.

Maybe worse. I could lose my job as a consultant.

And Maggie—” he paused and glanced at me—“well, I’m not sure what she’d lose, but I promise it won’t be small. ”

My heart thudded in my ears. Uncle Silas just stared, unbothered.

“And what if I don’t go in there?” he asked. “Wouldn’t it look worse if Graham ignored a direct order from his captain?”

I clenched my jaw. Damn it. He wasn’t wrong.

“Fuck,” I muttered. “Derek… he has a point. Nettles specifically said he wanted Graham in there.”

“It’ll be fine…” Uncle Silas said with the confidence that made you want to believe him.

And maybe if he hadn’t been wearing Graham’s face, I could have. But watching the man I wanted to fuck’s body move like it belonged to someone else? That didn’t sit right in my stomach.

How could anything possibly go right when nothing made sense anymore?

He walked off toward the interrogation room, posture regal, chin lifted like he was walking into a damn ballroom. Even his gait was off—stiffer, too formal. Graham didn’t walk like that.

I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until the door closed behind him.

From across the precinct, Derek and I watched through the glass as the captain and Uncle Silas— in Graham’s body— took turns speaking to Portia.

Then Nettles glanced up and spotted us.

His mustache twitched with irritation as he pointed to a bench along the wall—clearly telling us to sit our asses down. A second later he yanked the blinds closed, cutting us off from whatever secrets Portia was about to unload.

I let out a slow exhale and dropped onto the bench. Derek sat beside me.

“What do you think Portia’s involvement is?” I asked, leaning forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

Derek leaned back, fingers laced behind his head, legs stretched out in front of him. “No idea. She’s always wrapped up in the foundation—parties, fundraisers, painting half the blue-blooded creeps in this town. I’d be surprised if she even had the time to be involved.”

My phone chimed.

Katie:

Aunts arrived. Going to mix up a spell to weaken Silas so he’s easier to exorcize.

Sounds good.

FYI, Silas took over Graham again and is now interrogating Portia Valmont WITH THE CAPTAIN!!!

I snorted and slipped the phone back into my purse. But my eyes drifted back to the blinds, anyway.

That was Graham’s body in there. His voice. His badge. But none of it felt like him.

It felt like watching someone wear his skin like a tailored suit—and I hated it.

“Derek…” My voice cracked before I could stop it. “What am I supposed to do? I feel like I’m never going to feel safe again—not with the mastermind still out there. And now the possession’s throwing everything sideways.”

I sank back into the bench, eyes still fixed on the closed blinds. “I just—I’m starting to feel hopeless. Like…what did I do that was enough for someone to want to kill me?”

Derek didn’t answer right away. Just reached over and wrapped his hand around mine, steady and warm.

“You didn’t do anything,” his voice was quiet. “And you’re not alone. Katie and I—we’ll stay with you, if you’d like. Inside the house. Graham can cover outside. You won’t be unprotected, Mags. We’ll figure this out.”

“Yeah, but Graham isn’t just Graham…” I said.

“No, he’s not.” Derek shook his head. “But maybe that’s actually better for now. At least with Silas in there, we’ve got access to his memories. Potential clues.”

“Which we still haven’t been able to get out of him,” I snapped, my hand flung into the air like it had just tossed any hope I had left to the wind.

“Maybe Katie will have something ready by the time we get back.”

Derek was trying anything he could to keep me from spiraling, and I was grateful for it, but it didn’t feel like enough.