Page 67 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

Graham rested the box on the step, reached behind his back, and pulled out a large white envelope and box from under his sweater.

“Brought these for you,” he said with a wink. “Might help with my promise tonight.”

Then—like that was supposed to fix everything—he closed the attic door behind him, disappearing.

The sound of him climbing those creaky-ass stairs?

It scraped right down the center of my spine.

UGH! I should’ve been up there.

I should’ve been in the loop. In the know. In the fucking room.

But no. The old wound of feeling left out, even when it involved me, was ripped wide open.

I stormed into my room, slammed door harder than necessary, and collapsed onto the bed beside Chester. He sprawled in the sunlight, oblivious to the fact that the man I maybe, sort of, absolutely adore was acting shady as hell.

I dragged my fingers through Chester’s warm fur, grounding myself.

Then I grabbed my phone and called the only person who might make sense of this?—

Katie.

“You feeling better, Mags?” Katie’s voice was soft, but I could hear the worry threading through.

“I was… until about ten minutes ago.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Graham and Derek are here. And they are acting seriously sketchy.”

“Weirder than their secret bromance that neither of them will admit to?”

“Oh, way weirder. Graham had Derek hauled in enough computer equipment to start a tech startup in my attic. Then he told me the case’s been moved to county—so PGPD is off it—but now he says he’s running his own investigation.”

There was a long pause. I could hear her brain shifting gears.

“Wow. Okay. That’s actually… kind of huge, Mags.”

“Why?”

“Because Graham’s allergic to authority on a good day, sure—but I’ve never seen him break the rules for someone. Not like this. This is full rogue mode. For you.”

My shoulders dropped like someone let the air out of me.

I should’ve felt flattered—hell, grateful even. Wasn’t this what I always wanted? Someone who’d go to bat for me? Who’d protect me because they wanted to— no matter the cost?

And yet all I could think about was how fast this was moving.

What if this wasn’t love?

What if it was just lust… and trauma… and adrenaline… and he was throwing away everything he worked for… for nothing?

“Really?” I whispered, more to myself than her.

“Really, really.” Katie’s voice softened again. Then, like a light switch flipping:“Sooo. Portia’s party. You need help picking an outfit? You’ve still got time, right?”

I blinked.

She was unbelievable.

“Katie, how are you thinking about clothes right now?”

“Because you’re spiraling, and when you spiral, you get cranky. When you get cranky, you don’t dress cute. And if you don’t dress cute, you’ll regret it. Don’t fight me.”

Okay, fair.

Maybe I did need a distraction.

But I could have been cranky for an entirely different reason she didn’t need to know about. My orgasm stealing cat.

I sighed. “Yes. Come over and distract me. Please. And when I leave with Graham tonight, maybe you could?—”

“… poke around? Corner Derek? Charm some secrets out of him?”

She was already grinning, I could hear it in her voice.

“Exactly.”

“Totally. I know him well enough to tell when he’s full of shit. I’ll get the scoop. Don’t worry—I’m on it.”

“Thanks, Kates.” I hung up and flopped back on the bed beside Chester.

The relief that flooded through me was like aloe on a sunburn—cooling, unexpected, and oddly emotional. Katie was becoming the type of friend I didn’t think I’d ever have again. Ride-or-die, sarcasm-laced loyalty wrapped in neon hair and haunted doll eyes.

How the hell did I even repay someone like that?

Then I spotted it.

A note taped to the top of the box Graham gave me:

Sorry you didn’t get to have my sweet dick earlier. Hope this helps.

—G.

I rolled my eyes and lifted the lid.

Inside?

A life-sized, fairly accurate copy of his dick made out of chocolate nestled in a bed of hand-cut paper hearts and miniature Toostie Rolls.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I rolled my eyes again, this time so hard I nearly pulled something and slammed the candy dick back in its box.

He was lucky I found emotional manipulation with snacks incredibly effective.

Then, I slid my thumb under the flap of the envelope and pulled out the contents.

I let out an audible gasp, my cheeks instantly flushed hot.

Oh. My. God.

Three separate years of that goddamn charity calendar.

I flipped through the pages like I was afraid to damage them. My hands trembled slightly. Inside, I was giddy and shrieking.

Rippling abs. Tight asses. Shiny thighs.

And there he was. Just like he said. Officer November.

Oiled up. Smug grin. Leg holster. Nothing else.

Jesus. I couldn’t even be mad creatively anymore.

I slammed the calendars shut and crammed them under my pillow like I was thirteen again and my mom just walked in unannounced.

Nice try, buddy.

Nothing, not even seeing you flexed, posed, and oiled up, was going to distract me from the fact that you were most likely doing something completely shady… potentially illegal… at my house… without me .

Cop or not…. It was… It was… fucking rude— is what it was.

I may have swooned. And my pussy might have trembled—but I was still pissed.

While I waited for Katie to arrive, I grabbed my phone and Googled:

Portia Valmont + Jonathan Belvedere.

Belvedere didn’t exist.

Not online. Not in articles. Not even on those sleazy gossip forums where someone’s ex always came to spill the tea anonymously.

There was literally nothing.

Unless you count a shadowy mention on a Dark Web message board—which, no thank you, I left that for Derek.

Portia, on the other hand, had an entire Wikipedia page.

Of course, she did.

Apparently, she founded something called The Bridge to Solace Foundation back in 2005. Mission: helping “less fortunate children along the Northern East Coast” with medical treatment, food, shelter—the usual PR-perfect humanitarian fluff.

Every party she threw? Donation-based.

Last year alone? Five hundred mil—SHIT!

Half a billion dollars?!

I quickly Googled St. Jude’s to compare. Two Billion.

So no—she wasn’t quite that saintly. But still.

That’s an insane amount of money for what was essentially a charity built out of rich people's cocktail parties.

How the hell did Portia Valmont pull in that kind of cash?

Her portraits weren’t that good.

Charm? Connections?

Some culty rich-lady aura that hypnotized everyone into emptying their pockets? At this point, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

I was in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Massachusetts. Yacht clubs were practically public utilities here. So sure, people had money.

And if she was promising salvation—or at least a tax deduction—they were probably happy to shovel it her way.

It said Portia was one of the biggest supporters of the PGPD, PGFD, and local EMS. She paid for the maintenance of every patrol car, fire truck, rescue boat and ambulance in Port Grey. She even had lunch catered daily.

Daily.

Jesus.

Then why the fuck did Graham have to strip for donations if she’d already covered most of the expenses? The town’s taxes should have covered the rest.

Part of me wanted to believe she was just a generous, overachieving philanthropist with a heart of gold and a bottomless trust fund.

A bubbly little ray of goodwill.

But the other part—said she was lying out her ass.

No one threw that kind of money around without expecting loyalty in return.

She didn’t just support the emergency response teams.

She fucking owned them.

And if—when—shit hit the fan, she’d be the first they’d protect.

What if she had her fingers in the courts too?

What if this whole town was stitched up with Portia’s golden thread?

The premonition gave me a glimpse—just a glimpse—of who she really was.

Or at least who Morty believed her to be.

But that wasn’t enough.

If I wanted answers, I needed proof. Cold, dead, undeniable proof.

Oh god…

No.

I couldn’t.

I wouldn’t.

…

Fuck.

I needed to see Morty Planchette’s body again.