Page 70 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

STONE COLD CONFESSIONS

Maggie

The further we drove, the fancier the houses became. Uncle Silas’s manor was no shack, but these ? These were palatial—each mansion easily four or five times the size of the manor. Marble columns. Circular drives. More fountains than sense.

“So what’s the plan for tonight?” Graham asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I thought you had the plan.”

Goosebumps lifted on my arms—maybe from the breeze, or maybe from the reality sinking in: we were driving straight into a suspected murderer’s house with nothing but gut instinct and a lot of attitude.

“Well,” I said, “somehow, we have to get inside. I need to know I’m right about that crystal. Even if that’s the only thing we manage tonight.”

“You’re doing all this just to prove you were right?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t you?”

“Probably, but the last time you tried to prove yourself right I got fucking possessed, so forgive me if I seem a little on edge,” he said, running a hand down his thigh, smoothing his jeans like it would iron out his nerves.

“How are you planning to get in, anyway? A house like that isn’t exactly open to the public. ”

I looked at him. “You’re the cop. Can’t you flash a badge or something?”

He smirked. “If it comes to that—sure.”

We pulled up to a barricade, and an officer in a reflective vest waved us onto the blocked-off street.

“Thanks, Paul.” Graham called, even though the window was still up.

Red maples lined the grassy median between the lanes. The road was packed, the curbs glowing with soft yellow lights embedded in the concrete—pretty, but only made the swarm of vehicles feel more claustrophobic. No way we’d find a spot near the beach.

We crawled through, scanning for an opening in the flood of cars and overdressed party guests.

Then I saw it—an empty space.

“There!” I shouted, pointing it out. Graham whipped the wheel and pulled in.

“Good eyes, my girl,” he said, cutting the engine.

We stepped out of the truck and were immediately met with the distant sounds of the party—live music drifting through the salt air, waves crashing beyond it, and the soft hum of voices and laughter.

Our parking spot was right beside a wrought iron arch, draped in flowering vines. It led to a meticulously kept garden—old, or at least styled that way. Maybe Portia had mature plants hauled in to fake the history. Either way, it was beautiful.

Darkness settled over the garden like a curtain, but soft lanterns and glowing glass orbs lit the stone pathways. Their light spilled over clusters of moonflowers, lavender, fountain grasses, and slender flowering trees. It felt like something out of a dream—quiet, intentional, almost sacred.

We followed the path, Graham’s fingers laced with mine. The scent of cypress mulch and damp soil wrapped around us, spiced with rosemary and something faintly citrusy I couldn’t place.

Up ahead, another arch waited—this one heavy with white hanging blooms. We passed beneath it and came out the other side at the edge of Portia’s seaside mansion.

The red stone path turned into a circular drive. To our left, a sleek six-car garage in white stucco stood beneath a second-story patio. A few vehicles, including Marble Bistro’s catering truck, parked off to the side.

The patio above looked like it belonged on a brochure—but no one was on it.

Black wrought iron fencing lined the edge, and someone had flipped the chairs upside-down onto the tables.

The whole setup felt less like a party venue and more like a place shut down for the season.

It made me wonder if Portia ever actually used it… or if the sunshine was just for show.

From where we stood, the garage and patio obscured most of the house, but the floodlights shone along the path leading to the beach. That’s where the real party was—and where we were headed.

As we approached the party, the scent hit me like a wave—charcoal-grilled burgers, salty sea air, and the sharp tang of burning tiki torch fuel.

A stage had been setup near the house—one I still couldn’t believe Portia paid for with her art sales.

The live band played something upbeat, coaxing dancers to jive in the loose sand until their calves gave out.

Others lingered around the catering tables, helping themselves to burgers, chips, fruit, and sloppy heaps of potato salad and coleslaw.

Some found seats at white folding tables to devour their meals, silver plastic forks clinking against clear plastic plates.

I spotted Portia from across the party—because of course I did.

She was working the raffle baskets like a politician, all faux charm and calculated winks.

Even at a casual beach party, she wore a full-length white glitter dress that trailed behind her like she thought she was being photographed for the cover of a yacht magazine.

I half expected someone to mistake her as the entertainment.

Just past the last row of tiki torches, a mountain of old pallets and busted furniture loomed—broken chairs, splintered tables, stray boards—destined to be set ablaze.

“That bonfire’s going to be massive,” I muttered, eyeing it.

“Yeah,” Graham said, “just like the bill for her permit.”

He led me toward the bar between the catering tables and the stage, and despite everything gnawing at the edges of my nerves, I let him.

I grabbed a glass of champagne, downed it in one swig, and locked eyes on Portia like she might sprout horns if I blinked. Then I grabbed another.

“Whoa, easy. You planning to get drunk there, Max?” Graham’s brow twitched, his entire face relaxing into concern.

“Liquid courage.” I muttered between gulps, bubbles prickling my nose.

“For what?” He leaned in, too close, like proximity could stop me.

“I’m going inside,” I whispered from the corner of my mouth.

“What? No, not alone.”

“Just for a little bit,” I said, flashing him a saccharine smile. “You keep your eyes on Portia. If she moves, stall her. I’ll be quick.”

“I don’t like this.” Graham dragged his fingers through his hair, tension carved deep into his features.

I grabbed a party favor bag from the table, stuffed it in my purse and slapped his ass on instinct. “Back in a few.”

“No—Max—” he growled, low and firm, but I was already gone, slipping behind the stage.

With Portia distracted and the party in full swing, this was the only shot I had to get inside unnoticed.

It was now or never.

I stood in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust. The room was dark, but the floodlights outside cut through the windows just enough to paint the interior in silver-blue strokes.

The living room looked like it had been dipped in bleach.

White walls. White marble floors. White leather furniture.

Even the shaggy rugs—pure white. Yeah, it was elegant, sure, in that soulless magazine kind of way.

Not a speck of dust, not a pillow out of place.

A couple decorative nods to the sea—a starfish on the mantle, an anchor hung on the wall—but even those had been sterilized into monotone. Painted white. Of course.

Did she even live here?

I padded across the marble and caught the hallway to the left, eyes drawn to the only sign of imperfection I’d seen so far: a home office, the desk cluttered with a stack of file folders. Bingo.

I stepped in, pulled the top folder open, and let my fingers rifle through the papers like I wasn’t about to commit a felony.

“These are recent,” I whispered to myself, holding one up to the hallway light. “This one’s dated today. ” My pulse picked up.

I flipped to the next page. “This one too, only?—”

A pair of voices—one male, one female—froze me mid-breath.

My heart lunged into my throat. My chest locked. My fists crushed the papers, shoving them into my purse in a blind panic as I braced to be caught.

My eyes darted to the right.

Movement.

I held my breath.

Two partygoers strolled past the window outside the office, laughing like they didn’t have a clue how close I came to cardiac arrest.

Jesus Christ.

I saw stars. The room spun. It was like no matter how much I breathed, it wasn’t enough. My lungs ached.

Come on, Maggie.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale .

I shook out my hands, trying to reset my system, coax my twitching muscles into stillness.

Focus.

These papers had to mean something. I should bring them to Graham. I tucked the now empty folder back into the center of the stack and smoothed the edges like that’d erase the fact that just rifled through her private shit.

I glanced toward the hallway.

No freaking way I could keep this up.

I needed another drink.

Maybe two.

I closed the office door behind me and slipped back into the long hallway, glancing into each room as I passed.

Bathroom.

Linen closet.

Stairs.

Then I reached what I thought was the main bedroom.

The second I opened the door, something in my gut twisted—like my curiosity just signed its own death certificate.

I stepped inside, closing the door softly behind me, leaving it cracked just enough to bolt if I had to. The blinds were drawn tight. It was almost pitch black.

Perfect time to bless the invention of cell phone flashlights.

I fished mine out of my purse and flicked it on, sweeping the narrow beam across the room.

For a mansion like this? I expected more.

A queen-sized bed was centered against the far wall. A closet door sat on the right of the headboard. Across from me, the windows were sealed shut, blinds suffocating any hint of moonlight. Beneath them, a wide eight-drawer dresser. At the foot of the bed, another door—probably a ensuite bath.

That was it.

No pictures. No books. No perfume bottles. Not even a pair of shoes tossed in the corner.

It was… sterile. Like no one lived here. Like no one wanted to.

I decided my best shot right now was to find that purse—the one with the brooch I saw the other day.

So I did what any totally sane, completely logical person would do in my situation.

I started snooping.

One drawer at a time.

Dress shirts.

Slacks.

Black socks.