Page 76 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

The grin on my face stretched wide enough to crack my damn skull. Maggie’s jaw dropped, her eyes locked on the now wide-open doors like she couldn’t decide whether I was a genius or a lunatic. Probably both.

She blinked once. Then again. One brow twitched like it was considering evacuating her whole face.

I gave her a smug nod. “Told you.”

Maggie

“God, you’re a show-off… but good work.” The glass doors sealed shut behind me with a soft hiss as I followed Graham inside.

The examination room was colder than I expected—too cold for comfort, the kind of cold that sank into your bones and settled. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, all of them technically on, but the room still felt dim, like the shadows didn’t listen when the light hit them.

I wrapped my arms around myself as I took in the row of tables ahead. Two of them had bodies draped under crisp white sheets, and just the sight of them had the hairs at the back of my neck rising like radar. Goosebumps bloomed across my arms and raced down my spine.

Graham picked up the balloon and veered to the right, drawing my attention to the far wall lined with steel mortuary cabinets—fifteen at least, maybe more. My stomach knotted.

“God,” I whispered, “how are we supposed to find him in the few minutes we have left?”

“It shouldn’t be too hard,” he said, already moving toward the cabinets. “He’s probably the only one in there that’s just a pile of bones, don’t ya think?”

His tone was flippant—too flippant. And right now, I hated it.

I crinkled my nose and scrunched my face at him, full-on mockery, while he methodically opened each mortuary cabinet one by one.

The first almost sent a deafening screech through from my lips.

It was just a fucking head, propped up sitting there, eyes open, drooping eyelids, slack jawed, and dead. Very. Very dead.

I slapped my hand over my mouth and flicked my eyes to Graham’s.

Every door after he’d block my view while he slid out the telescoping tray just enough until he was sure I wouldn’t freak. It was… efficient.. And horrifying.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of stale dead people air and the sound of steel clinking, he tugged one out to eye level—eye level for me, which unfortunately meant nose level for the stench.

“Oh, God.” I gagged softly, covering my mouth as I caught sight of Morty’s fully reassembled skeleton. Dr. Crowley had pieced him back together like a macabre puzzle, neat and orderly, right down to the twisted little toe bones.

Graham leaned over, squinting at the toe tag laid on the tray. “Yep. Says Mortimer Planchette.” He tapped the metal lightly with a fingernail.

My stomach twisted. “Ugh. Do I really have to touch him?”

“I don’t know, Max. You tell me,” he shrugged, stepping back a pace. “You’re the one who insisted on having a chat with Skeletor , here. I’ve never dealt with this shit before.”

“Neither have I. I don’t even know if this will work.” I whisper-screamed, shooting him a glare.

Graham shot me one right back.

Sighing, I lifted my hand slowly toward Morty’s foot, hovering just above the remnants of rotted flesh that clung to the discolored bones. I closed my eyes and tried to focus—on energy, on presence, on something.

Nothing.

Just the cold.

Just me.

And Morty.

And the distant hum of the fluorescent lights.

A drip from the faucet.

The low hum of the refrigeration system.

And the thump-thump-thump of my own traitorous heart, trying to launch itself into my throat and choke me where I stood.

I shook my head, face twisting in revulsion. “Graham, I can’t do it—my brain physically won’t let me touch him.”

Without a word, Graham crossed the tiled floor in three quick strides and tore a pair of blue gloves from the wall dispenser. He held one open in front of me, steady and silent.

“Try these,” he said.

I slipped my hand in, closed my eyes, and braced myself.

Morty’s foot.

Nothing.

His femur.

Still nothing.

His pelvis.

Nope.

“Dammit!” I snapped, the word escaping before I could swallow it.

“Shhh—” Graham pressed his finger to my lips, eyes alert.

My chest heaved, air sticking in my throat. This wasn’t like the other time. I wasn’t stumbling into death—I was reaching for it. Choosing it. And now the tears swelled, hot and stinging, because I knew what had to happen.

I was going to have to touch him. Barehanded. On purpose.

I exhaled, breath shaking as I peeled the glove from my hand as the dread crept in heavy. Then, slowly, I lowered my hand.

Skin to skin—well, what was left of it. Clammy, cold, and wrong in every way.

I pressed my palm to Morty’s foot.

Instantly, I was somewhere else.

Morty lay sprawled across a bed in what looked like a cheap, poorly lit hotel room. The walls were yellowed. The air felt damp. Red beaded fabric covered the lamps on either side of the headboard, casting everything in a seedy crimson glow.

“Maggie, do you see anything?” Graham’s voice echoed like it was coming from underwater, far away and entirely too grounded for what I was experiencing.

“Yeah,” I breathed, not even sure if I was speaking out loud.

A woman stepped into view—topless, wearing nothing but a red thong and ripped fishnets. She crawled onto the bed, long nails dragging up my—no, definitely Morty’s leg.

“Money’s on the table, love,” Morty said, gesturing toward a sloppy stack of twenties crumpled near a half-empty bottle of something brown.

She glanced to confirm, then slunk forward with a smirk, headed straight for the?—

“Oh, my God,” I said—and Morty said. In sync.

Fuck no.

Then Morty’s hand reached into his pants. And out came his cock—hard, eager, and attached to me . To us . Because of course the vision was in first-person, and of course I could feel everything .

“Nope!” I jerked my hand off his foot like I’d been electrocuted and stumbled back, practically gagging as I crashed into the tray of instruments behind me. “Nope, nope, NOPE! ”

“What? What is it?” Graham looked at me like I’d just witnessed another murder—which, honestly, I wished I did.

“I… uh… I don’t want to see that.”

“See what?”

“Morty's about to get his dick dongled.”

“Oh,” his mouth snapped shut. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to see that either.”

“I’ll try again.” I muttered, closing my eyes and shaking off the corpse touching ick like it’s glitter from hell.

Apparently, there was no pause button on psychic freak shows—every time I connected, it flung me into some random lowlight of Morty’s life.

First, a sleazy hotel—red lights, paid company, gag.

Then a dusty old theater, his first kiss with someone named Judy.

Almost sweet.

Then under the bleachers, high school, him jacking it while staring up skirts.

I gagged.

“God, Morty’s a goddamn creeper.” My face twisted in disgust. “I can’t get anything useful.”

“Maybe try thinking about something connected to what you’re actually looking for,” Graham said, “and try to ignore whatever residual throbbing you’ve got going on for me, yeah? That horny static in your veins is scrambling your signal.”

My eyes snapped open, and I threw him a glare sharp enough to skin a man.

But damn it… he might’ve been right.

My legs were still trembling from whatever that was in Portia’s bathroom.

I need to get my head out of my pussy and into Morty’s memories.

Okay… clean thoughts only.

Think Portia.

Think Morty.

Think Uncle Silas.

Think… business… crime… connections…

Before I could even land on what to focus on, the visions started crashing through me like waves—moments in Mortimer’s life, all tangled with Portia. I rode each one, letting go of his foot and grabbing it again, like I was cycling a haunted switch.

The light flickered in my mind—dim, bright, dim again—until finally, one memory settled.

And it felt promising.

The scene that took shape was some kind of business meeting.

The air was stale, the lighting overhead too dim for comfort.

Morty—me, I guess—sat at a long table across from a well groomed couple, polished and tight-lipped.

The man at the head wore dark blue jeans and a navy blazer, but he didn’t wear them well.

His black hair was slicked into a greasy pompadour that glistened under the fluorescent lights, and sweat mapped its way down the deep creases of his face, pooling in the collar of his stiff white shirt.

He looked like a man who thought signing up for a Happy Burger franchise would save him.

And judging by the glossy folders stamped with the logo, that was exactly what this was—another couple suckered into chasing the American dream, just under new management.

My—or Morty’s—eyes lowered to the paperwork. Loan agreements. Reduced interest rates. A stipulation for weekly “support visits.” Everything dressed up with corporate polish, but the terms bled control.

“I’ll stop by every Friday after closing to collect the donations and see that the prices correlate correctly with my needs,” Portia said, the tip of her cigarette holder glowing as she took a drag. She exhaled slowly, a cloud of smoke rolling across the table like fog creeping over a grave.

The couple nodded, but their smiles were strained. Too much teeth. Too little choice.

“And what about us?” The woman asked, voice clipped and tart.

She was probably mid-forties, leaning over the man’s shoulder like she was used to being center stage even when she wasn’t invited to speak.

Her silk blouse strained across a set of implants that clearly weren’t done on a budget, and her black pencil skirt was short enough to suggest she wanted to dress for war and win.

Red-dyed hair pinned back tight, reading glasses slid low on her nose as she scanned the contracts like she was hunting for the betrayal.

She looked familiar. I couldn’t place her, but something about the way her jaw tightened set off alarms in my gut.