Page 71 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

A lineup of ties that looked like they belonged to a guy who made deals in alleyways.

Then, I opened the bottom drawer.

Jewelry.

My flashlight caught the glint of gold.

My heart stopped.

A cufflink—sleek, expensive-looking, and identical to the one on the arm that smashed in Morty Planchette’s skull.

Holy shit.

Is this his room? Morty’s murderer?

My heartbeat roared in my ears.

I stumbled back a step, phone trembling in my hand. Don’t take it, just document it. Graham’s warning echoed in my head: “If it’s not gathered legally, it’s inadmissible.”

Right. Don’t touch.

I snapped a picture. Two. Three, just in case. My pulse hammered as I turned to leave— shit, the invoices.

I whirled around, heart thundering.

And froze.

The hallway light clicked on.

The door creaked open.

And there she was.

Glittering. Smiling. Unblinking.

Portia fucking Valmont.

In an instant, my mouth went desert-dry.

Portia flipped on the light.

“Miss Maxwell,” she said, her syrupy southern drawl thicker than molasses and twice as condescending, “what on earth are you doing in here?”

Shit.

Think, Maggie. Fast.

“I… I needed to use the bathroom… and I got turned around.”

Her lips pursed. “The house isn’t open to the public, dear.” She stepped inside, closing the distance with unsettling grace, and extended a gloved hand. “Come along. I’ll show you to the port-a-potties out back.”

“I can’t,” I blurted out before my brain could catch up.

Her hand froze in mid-air. “Can’t what , dear?”

“I can’t use a port-a-potty.”

She paused. Then a slow, amused blink.

My forehead prickled with sweat. “It’s a real phobia. Claustrophobia… and, uh, the… aroma. It’s the humidity. You know, everyone’s body heat mixing with…” I lowered my voice, “…piss and fecal matter.”

Portia’s face twisted like I just said the word moist. She recoiled slightly, one gloved hand drifting protectively to her abdomen like her bowels might catch fire just from the mention of it.

I wiped a brow with the back of my hand. “See? I’m sweating just thinking about it.

“Come. Come.” Portia clasped my hand—icy fingers wrapped in thin white gloves—and led me to the hallway, pointing toward the office. “Second door on the left. Make yourself at home. Just don’t tell your friends—I can’t have the entire town traipsing in to use the facilities.”

I flashed the most gratuitous smile I could muster and shuffled down the hall with a touch of cross-legged desperation in my step, just for good measure. I reached the door, slipped inside, and closed it behind me.

Only then did I exhale.

The tension, the panic, the fear of being caught red-handed—gone in a single shaky, ragged breath.

And hell, after all that? I really did have to pee.

Besides, I wasn’t technically lying about the port-a-potty. Those things were disgusting even fresh from the factory.

Graham

God, it’d been twenty minutes.

“She should be out by now,” I muttered, eyes scanning the crowd for a flash of glitter or drama. But Portia was nowhere to be found.

Should I text her? What if she’s hiding from Portia?

Fuck.

I knew I shouldn’t have left the post, but no one told me the damn snack bar was pushing pasties. And did you know a pasty was basically a mini pie —wrapped in a buttery crust, warm in the hand, portable enough to commit a felony with. If manna was real, this shit had to be it.

Okay, so maybe I got a little carried away at the pie table. I took my eyes off Portia. I blacked out somewhere between the meat and the mushroom brie.

I couldn’t help it. If I ever fucked up something truly important, it was because of pie.

I popped the last bit of triple berry into my mouth, wiped my face on a napkin like a damn heathen, and started for the house. Time to drag Max out of there before she set the place on fire—or uncovered something I wasn’t ready for.

I’d been here a few times before. Most of the calls were minor—neighbor’s cat stuck in a tree, Portia panicking that the same neighbor was going to destroy the painting because she “made them look like a hooker.”

Standard Port Grey drama.

Most of my interactions stayed outside the Valmont place.

But once, when Portia’s family was visiting, her brother threatened to take the property if she couldn’t manage it on her own.

The two of them were wrestling in the living room.

Not metaphorically. We’re talking full-on limbs-flailing, hair-pulling wrestling.

Her brother’s wife called it in, convinced Portia was going to win.

By the time we showed up, they were all hugs and wine glasses. Still, Portia kept the house.

At least, I thought she did. It was bare as hell. No photos, no artwork, and the furniture looked like it had never touched an ass. Not even a dent in the couch cushion. Weird.

“Max?” I whispered, hugging the wall like a damn spy trying not to blow my cover against the stark, blinding white of the room.

A noise echoed down the hall.

Shit. Probably her.

I followed the sound, but the house lights were on now—which meant Portia’s probably in here with her. If she caught Maggie doing something reckless, we’d be so fucked.

“Oh hi, Graham, darling.”

Of course.

Portia appeared from around the corner, tucking her jet black hair under the bird she was calling a hat. It was probably some retro 1940s bullshit, but honest to God, it looked like a peacock lost a fight with a glue gun and was now recuperating on Portia’s head.

“What are you doing in here?” She chirped, voice all honey and glittering suspicion.

“Looking for Maggie,” I said, flashing my best concerned-boyfriend face. “She said she was going to the bathroom, but she’s not in the facilities outside.”

I lied through my teeth.

Portia studied me from behind her netted veil like she was reading my soul—or measuring me for a coffin.

“Yes, I saw her,” she finally said, fake smile screwed on. “She’s in the little girl’s room.” She pointed down the hallway. “Should be out in just a moment.”

I nodded with a tight, lipless smile. “Thank you.”

Just then, a woman in a headset poked her head through the door. “Ms. Valmont, you’re needed on set.”

Of course, she was.

This party wasn’t a party—it was a damn production.

“Be right there,” Portia called back over her shoulder, her glittering dress dragging like a bridal train behind her. On her way out, she placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “Make sure you don’t miss my speech. Oh—and lock the door on your way out, dear.”

“Will do. Thanks.” I nod, faking polite.

She glided off like a swan on cocaine, heading for the stage.

I waited two beats, then booked it down the hall and rapped my knuckles on the bathroom door. “Max? You in there?”

“Yeah—come in,” she said, voice distracted.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside. She hunched over the vanity, papers splayed out in front of her like evidence on a crime board.

She looked up, cheeks flushed, eyes shining with adrenaline. “Look at this.”

She held out two invoices—both stamped with today’s date. It was for the catering.

“Same company, same order, same everything—but look.” She jabbed her finger at the numbers. “One copy’s got a price that was almost triple the other.”

I frowned, stepping closer. “Maybe they added more food? Big turnout tonight.”

“Nope.” She tapped the timestamp. They were printed at exactly the same time.”

My brow tightened. “So she’s skimming?”

“Or laundering,” she whispered, like the word itself was dangerous. “Either way, something was off.”

I glance at the door behind us, jaw ticking. “You realize if she catches you with that, we’re both screwed, right?”

Maggie grinned like the devil’s favorite daughter. “You love it.”

Fuck me. She was right.

“Look, Portia’s gonna be out there for at least half an hour—her speeches drag on forever.

And with that life-size statue of a Roman god with an erection the size of a fucking Pringles can—,” I gestured to the marble monstrosity next to the frosted window by the jacuzzi.

“—it’s kinda hard to stay focused on the case. If you catch my drift.”

Maggie blinked at it, deadpan. “Do you think she masturbates to it?”

“No clue.” I grabbed a white washcloth off the shelf and turned the hot water on full blast. Steam billowed up like a fog machine. The cloth was damn near scalding—just how I wanted it. “Probably. Bet he’s a two-pump chisel job, anyway.”

She looked at the statue, then the cloth, then me. Her brows furrowed in that way that made her freckles scrunch up, and something about that made me want to ruin her in the most respectful way.

“That thing’s been hard for centuries,” she said dryly, “don’t let it bruise your ego.”

I smirked, “Princess, if I were worried about statues out-performing me, I would have retired my dick years ago.” I muttered as I wrung out the cloth, shut off the faucet, and stepped toward the statue. “I just believe in a clean work surface. Wouldn’t want you getting a UTI.”

And yeah—I grinned. Just a little. Just enough to bait her—as I leaned in and started polishing the statue’s proud, cold, thoroughly unnecessary marble dick.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched my movements, but didn’t stop me. “What are you doing ?”

I didn’t look up. “I told you you’d be coming before the night was over, Max.”

She sucked in a breath. “What? Here? Now ? No, you’re insane. I’m not?—”

“Just think about it,” I tossed the cloth into the sink, stepped in close— close until my shadow swallowed her. “Cold, hard stone stretching you open. Your body shaking from the pressure. Riding it until you forget how to breathe.”

Her eyes snapped to the statue, horrified. “How the fuck am I supposed to ride that? The damn thing’s like seven feet tall! I can’t even back up to it without getting stabbed between the shoulder blades.

I tilted my head. “Then let me help. We’ll do it together. I promise—it’ll be unforgettable.”

Her mouth opened, protest ready, but her eyes dropped.

Right to my cock, straining behind my zipper.