Page 75 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

“Fine. Fine…” she said, her voice sounded uninterested, like she was too busy filing her nails or some shit.

“I’ll just end up pregnant, and when my dad does the math—and you know he will—he’ll see that the due date lines up with the last time you chaperoned us…

.” I could see her evil smiling face in my mind.

“I’ll let you imagine the kind of effect this would have on your career. ”

“I can fucking arrest you. I don’t know for what exactly, but I’ll think of something.”

“Yes, but I can fucking ruin you.”

Goddamn it, Locke. You’re letting this gum-smacking, hormone-fueled menace put you in a chokehold—and the worst part? You were kinda proud of her for it.

But it didn’t matter. I’d dealt with her kind before.

“Look, princess,” I growled, “either call your fucking father and keep him on the line for twenty minutes, or kiss every ‘cool cop’ chaperoned date goodbye. Kiss them more than goodbye. I mean scorched-earth, lights-out, blocked from-every-teen-boy-in-a-five-county-radius goodbye.”

I leaned forward, voice low and lethal.

“Because if you don’t do this? I will out you to your daddy for the conniving, blackmailing, gum-smacking little wretch you are.

And baby, don’t think for a second I’m bluffing.

I’ve got connections. I’ll have the entire state of Massachusetts convinced that Ol’ Felix Crowley’s daughter caught every STD since the Summer of ’69.

That you’ve got five baby daddies—none of them willing to send child support ‘cause your crotch has more crab than an all-you-could-eat surf-and-turf buffet. That your rotten puss-pocket smells like a lutefisk casserole left out on Christmas Eve and any dick that gets near it? Shrivels like a cursed mummy in a tomb made of regret.”

I paused. Let it sink in.

“So unless you want your dating pool reduced to guys driving windowless vans that don’t ask for last names—you’ll make the fucking call.”

A sharp little gasp snapped through the speaker, followed by a silence thick enough to slice it with a wire. Then Angel cleared her throat.

“When do you want me to call?”

Crowley killed the lights at the main entrance, bathing the lot in shadow.

“Now.”

I hung up, flipped the phone to vibrate, and shoved it into the front pocket of my jeans—tight enough to remind me just how bad of an idea this night was turning into.

“You’re kind of a misogynistic jackass,” Maggie muttered, unimpressed with my expert-level evasion of blackmail. “You can’t talk to girls like that. Especially minors.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I swore I almost detached a retina. “ What ? She had it coming. I spoke her language. I’ve got three sisters—each one a manipulative little daddy’s girl with a degree in emotional extortion. I could smell her a mile away.”

A second later, the light flipped back on. Crowley rushed into his office, phone to his ear.

I jerked my chin toward the building. “Let’s move.”

Thankfully, I knew the building like the back of my hand.

There was only one camera covering the back door—and an old sweep cam that panned left to right in slow, lazy arcs.

If we stayed just outside its range, waited for the rotation, we could gum up the lens.

Amateurs used this trick all the time—but if we were lucky, that sticky mess would buy us just enough time to get in, grab what we needed, and ghost.

We stuck to the hedges lining the lot, crouched low, shadows hugging our backs. Out of Crowley’s view—just in case his thrilling daddy-daughter chat died down and he got the bright idea to step outside for air.

“Graham, what’s the plan?” Maggie whispered. “Don’t leave me in the dark.”

I tapped my pocket. “Camera sweeps slow. One blind spot. I’ve got gum. And…” I pulled out the little black case. “Lock picks.”

“Seriously?”

I smirked. “Hobby. Legal-ish. Kinda depends on who’s asking.”

The camera shifted again—past the hydrant, the bike rack, then the dumpsters…

Wait for it…

There.

My eyes narrowed. “Showtime.”

I took Maggie’s hand, and we bolted—boots slapping pavement, hearts hammering. We made it to the sidewalk, then flattened ourselves against the building’s rough brown brick like fugitives in a bad heist movie.

I held out my palm without a word. She spit her gum into it. I did the same. No hesitation. I mashed the wads together and stepped up on the ledge beneath the camera, stretching just far enough to smear our little adhesive blindfold over the lens.

It stuck.

Good girl.

I dropped back down, already pulling the lock-pick kit from my pocket. Crouched at the steel door, I eyed the hardware. Mortise. Of course, it was.

I raked it a few times, felt the click, then switched to a single pick.

Two spool pins.

Finesse.

The lock gave.

Click.

We were in.

Like I said, it was a simple building—both in layout and security. Drab brown exterior, with a couple flowering shrubs planted out front, probably so grieving families had something living to look at while they were coming to ID a corpse. Some sad attempt at softness.

The small lobby, restrooms, and Crowley’s office sat near the front entrance—where we met him earlier. But there was only one hallway in the entire place. It ran down the left side, straight back to the door. No twists. No turns. Just one long corridor.

Every critical room branched off from it: the lab, the cooler, the exam suite. Maybe a janitor’s closet or two. Easy to get around if the person you were avoiding was stuck up front.

But if he stepped into this hall? Game over. Nowhere to hide. No shadows deep enough. Just flat white walls and our dumb luck.

If I remembered correctly, there was another camera just above the doors to the exam room. Same setup as the one outside—slow sweep, back and forth, like it had nothing better to do than look for trouble. Which was exactly what we were.

Could’ve been a problem if it caught us on tape. But I was careful. I cracked the door just enough to peek through and track the camera’s movement.

Once it swung toward the lobby, I gave Maggie a quick wave.

She slipped in, and I followed right after, hugging the wall beneath the lens.

It was mounted on one of those janky swivel arms. All I needed to do was reach up and tilt it off course—upward, so it stared at the ceiling tiles like a dumb tourist admiring architecture.

We both froze in front of the glass sliders to the exam room. Crowley’s voice carried faintly from the front, still talking about god-knows-what. If we were lucky, Morty’s body was still in one of the individual drawers back here, not wheeled into the main cooler near the lobby.

If we weren’t lucky… well. I’d been unlucky before. I could handle it.

Shit. That’s right.

My gaze snapped to the keypad mounted on the wall beside the doors. Electronic lock. RFID card or a code.

“Fuck,” I muttered, stepping back with my hands on my hips as I examined the frame. No way to pop the hinges—at least, not without setting off an alarm or spending more time than we had.

“What’s wrong?” Maggie whispered behind me.

“Electronic access,” I said through my teeth. “Which means we’re fucked. I don’t have time to clone a card or jury-rig this without risking the whole damn building going on lockdown.”

I stared at the glass panels a moment longer, eyes scanning every detail. Then it hit me.

“Wait…” My voice dropped to a hush. “When I was here last, I think these doors opened automatically—from the inside.”

Maggie gave me a look that landed somewhere between ‘duh’ and ‘are you having a stroke?’

“How is that supposed to help us?” She hissed. “We’re out here. Not in there.”

“Yes,” I said, swallowing the rush of adrenaline crawling up my spine. “But maybe… maybe we can trick the sensor.”

I pointed to her purse. “Got any type of spray? Vape maybe? Anything?” I asked. Still staring up at the sensor, inspecting it.

She pulled her crossbody bag around and dug through it, the soft jingle of keys and wrappers echoed too loud in the quiet hallway. “All I’ve got is my defense keychain, some Tootsie Rolls, a water bottle, and a favor bag from Portia’s.”

“Dammit,” I muttered, rifling through every trick I’d learned about covert entry. “What’s in the party bag?” I asked, tilting my head to catch any shift in Crowley’s voice. Still drifting through the lobby.

Good.

Maggie crouched beside me, untying the metallic ribbon around the cellophane frantically, then dumped the contents on the tile—bubbles, a candy whistle, a strip of cheap mints…

and then, like some glorious miracle, the gods sent a heavenly light down to illuminate the two purple and gold balloons with Portia’s foundation logo printed on them, just waiting to be our saving grace.

“You’re shitting me,” I breathed, plucking one between my index and middle finger like it was the damn key to the kingdom.

“You think a balloon is going to get us in?” Maggie whispered, eyes gleaming with disbelief. “You are actually nuts.”

“Just watch.” I grinned like a devil at the altar.

I grabbed my lock pick, easing the balloon through the crack between the glass doors—careful not to puncture the thing—until just the mouthpiece remained at our side. Then I stood tall, and gave it a steady puff of air.

Never thought I’d be frenching the goddamn morgue doors, but here we were.

I blew until the balloon was on the verge of popping, cheeks burning, jaw aching. Then I leaned back, eyes locked on Maggie—no way in hell I was missing her face if this worked.

I let go.

The balloon shot through the crack like a torpedo, whipping and spiraling through the air before slamming into the far table with a pathetic squeal. On the second bounce, it flew back toward the sensor. The glass doors let out a smooth mechanical hiss— and slid open like I’d whispered a magic word.

I couldn’t help it.