Page 77 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

“Your cause?” Portia chuckled, cold and unimpressed. “Mrs. Gallows, considering this arrangement was made by your husband to protect you and your family from his poor choice in business associates, I’d consider my debt.. to you … paid in full.”

The woman’s spine went rigid. Her head snapped toward her husband with a look that could melt steel.

“But I could give you a fifteen percent discount on a family portrait, if you wish.” Portia’s smile was molasses mixed with venom—slow, sweet, and ready to choke you if you weren’t careful.

“I don’t want any of your so-called artwork in my home.”

“Carmen, darling… sit down. Relax.” The man got up and eased into damage control, offering his seat like it’d settle the storm he just watched brew.

“No!” she snapped, eyes blazing. “This woman is trying to blackmail you into doing her dirty work, and I won’t have it!”

“Carmen, she’s willing to secure your and the children’s safety,” the man said, voice tight.

“Safety from what, Danny? From Eddie? Vince?”

“Well… yes. Eddie and Vince to start.”

“To start ?” Her voice climbed an octave, disbelief cracking through every syllable. “To fucking start?” Carmen shoved back from the table so hard her chair nearly toppled. “I want a divorce!” She spat, heels clicking like gunfire as she stormed out, the door slamming behind her.

Morty rose with all the elegance of a man who thought stacking papers made things less messy.

He straightened them into a folder— blue, of course, like it would cool the heat in the room— and stepped toward Danny.

“We’re really going to need Mrs. Gallows’ cooperation on this if we’re going to move forward with the transaction. ”

“Yes, yes. I understand.” Danny wiped at his brow like he was hoping to scrub away the shame that clung to his collar. “I’m sorry for my wife’s temper, Miss Valmont. She’s never been involved in the finances of the business. I hope you can forgive her.”

Portia rose. She smoothed her hand down the length of her grey fox stole. Her voice was ice. “Forgiveness is for the incompetent.”

“Divorce is not an option, Mr. Gallows.” Morty set the folder in front of Danny, holding it to the table with one finger. He locked eyes with him.

His voice was now low and intimidating. “Divorce involves the courts, and expensive lawyers sifting through years of financial documents.”

He slid the folder closer to Danny. “I’m sure they will not view your previous arrangement with the Fish—and now your new arrangement with Miss Valmont—as a simple case of loan consolidation.”

He stood straight, looking down his nose at Danny.

“I highly recommend convincing your wife to stick around, even if you have to buy her and the children their own home. Live separate lives. Don’t let her divorce you, Mr. Gallows. Your lives depend on it.”

With that, Morty placed his hand on the small of Portia’s back and ushered her out the door. Before closing it, he turned to face Danny one last time. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

I staggered back, bile climbing my throat.

This wasn’t just shady business—this was the kind of deal you didn’t get to walk away from. Carmen should’ve ran and should’ve kept running.

And now I couldn’t shake the feel of Morty’s smug little fingers brushing Portia’s back, like he was proud of what he’d done. Like it was just… business.

I let go of Morty’s foot, and the whirlwind snapped shut like a door slamming behind me. Reality rushed in cold and sharp. I stayed still, letting my breath catch up with my body. Then I told Graham what I saw—every ugly piece of it.

“Portia? Working muscle for The Fish?” Graham scrubbed his hand down his face. “Nah. No fuckin’ way. She’s the kind who lets other people get their hands dirty while she picks out curtains.”

“Who the hell is The Fish?” I asked, dragging my palms across my skirt like I could scrape off the corpse-stench crawling under my skin.

“Rocky Sorrentino. They call him The Fish,” Graham muttered. “He loans dirty money to desperate people, then guts them when they can’t pay. Takes their business or takes their breath—whichever’s easier.”

“…Why the hell isn’t he locked up?” I asked, trying to push back the increasing dread in my chest. “How does someone like that still breathe fresh air?”

“Rocky’s always been real cooperative when it comes to giving up information,” Graham said, voice edged in disbelief.

“No drugs, no dirty permits. Man even pays his goddamn taxes. Hell, he probably sends Christmas cards to the precinct. On paper, he’s squeaky.

Never gives the order, never leaves a trace. Nothing ever leads back to him.”

“Nothing ever leads to him…” I repeated slowly, my voice growing tight. “Or no one wants to look.” My nose wrinkled, and a rush of heat spread across my face, equal parts fear and fury. I hated this part—the part where monsters dress in suits and call it business.

“I wouldn’t be shocked if he’s in the mayor’s pocket,” Graham said, jaw flexing, “or the mayor’s wife’s pants.” He raked a hand through his hair. “But I never pegged Portia as someone who’d work for him. With him, maybe, but not for.”

Then, something in his expression shifted. His brow lifted. His eyes darted back and forth, like he was flipping through case files only he could see—then, boom, that flicker of chaotic, brilliant fire lit up behind them.

“Shit,” he breathed, like lightning had just struck. “Portia’s not the muscle. She’s not even the shark.”

He turned to me with a look of certainty.

“She’s the fucking shark tamer. ”

Suddenly, a shrill timer beeped from a machine in the lab, and Graham’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He yanked it out, read something on the screen, and his mouth dropped open.

“Shit, Max—we gotta go. Now.”

Before I could ask, he was already sliding Morty back into the cooler with a clang and slamming the door shut.

Too late.

Crowley’s silhouette blocked the exit, arms folded, jaw clenched, eyes heavy with disappointment and suspicion.

“Mr. Locke. Miss Maxwell.” His voice was dry, unimpressed. “Care to explain what exactly it is you two are doing in my examination room?”

My mouth was like cotton—instantly. Oh god. How many laws did we just break?

Breaking and entering—but if the door opened on its own, does that count?

Tampering with evidence—definitely.

Repeatedly touching decomposing corpses without authorization or, you know, a brain that didn’t short-circuit at the smell of death and dicks in premonitions.

My insides churned. My throat closed. I mentally gagged so hard I nearly hurled between Graham and Crowley. That would’ve been the cherry on top of our crime sundae.

Graham sighed, his expression flickering between panic, confidence, and flat-out embarrassment before he finally spoke.

“I have a lead. I didn’t want to drag you into it, and I can’t bring it to the Captain—at least not yet. I just need to get my ducks in a row before I make it official.”

Crowley eyed him like he was trying to x-ray his soul. “You know this doesn’t look good, Mr. Locke. Not good at all.”

Graham paled. “I know. I know you’re an upstanding guy, and I swear this isn’t what it looks like. We’re trying to help—as weird as this looks. Please… can you just let it slide? Say you never saw us past the lobby.”

He was practically begging. And if this man dropped to his knees, I might’ve forgotten how illegal this all was and got a little turned on. Now was not the time, Maggie.

The silence stretched, suffocating every breath I had left. Crowley looked between us, stone-faced, until the same beeper went off again—shrill and blessedly distracting.

“Don’t make me regret this… Officer.” He strode past the covered corpses like they were just furniture and headed into the lab.

“You’ll be picking Angel up at 6 P.M. on Saturday, right, Mr. Locke?”

Graham glanced to me, already wilting under the weight of whatever nightmare that name conjured.

I nodded like a bobblehead on speed. “If he’s willing to look the other way on this? Then Christ, Graham, agree to whatever the fuck he wants,” I whispered through clenched teeth.

“Yes, Dr. Crowley—6 P.M.” Graham grimaced, his whole body deflating like he’d just been handed a very polite death sentence.

“She’ll be waiting.” Crowley didn’t even look up as he studied a vial on the table, his tone flat. “Was that all?”

“Yes,” Graham muttered.

“Then you may see yourselves out.” His voice was pure dismissal. “I recommend using the same method you used to enter.”

“Thank you, Doctor Crowley!” I blurted, already halfway to the sliding doors, yanking Graham along by the wrist like we were fleeing a damn crime scene.

Once outside, the night air hit me like a slap—cold, sharp, exhilarating. “That was so fucking close!” I gasped, adrenaline sprinting through every vein. “Could you imagine if Crowley hadn’t been cool? We’d be totally?—”

“I can imagine.” Graham cut in, voice low. No matching grin. No shared thrill. Just heavy silence.

I slowed my steps. “Hey. You okay?”

“I’d lose my job,” he muttered, staring straight ahead.

“Really? Just like that? No warning?”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I already had my warning. Today.”

My stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”

“Today was my last day on your case.” His words come out clipped. “I’ve been suspended.”

I stopped walking. “Suspended? For what ?”

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t answer. Not until we reached the truck.

With one hand on the door, he said, “Doesn’t matter. I’m not giving up. We’ll figure out who killed those people. And who sent Custer.”

And just like that, the chill outside seeped into my bones.

He got suspended… because of me?

That was serious. Like—life-changing serious.

I didn’t know if he’d been suspended before, but hearing it said out loud like that?

It landed heavy.

And the worst part?

I didn’t even know what to say to him.

The ride home was quiet. Not bad quiet, just… tense. Slightly off.

Like neither of us wanted to poke the bruise too hard.

Thankfully, Night Moves played on the radio, Bob Seger humming just enough nostalgia to keep my thoughts from spiraling too deep.

But one thought refused to shut up.

What if he was under my spell?

What if all of this—his obsession, his intensity, the fact that he risked his job tonight?—

What if that wasn’t him?

What if I accidentally—somehow—bent him to my will without ever meaning to?

I never said the spell out loud, not like that. But… slipping up at work? Emotional wreckage? That was one of the early signs of the obsession taking hold.

Shit.

What could I have done?—

How could I fix something I never meant to break?