Years of hurt slashed through his features. Fists clenching and unclenching around the hilt of Jackie’s gun. “He deserves it. Or worse.”
“Listen to me.” Fletcher repositioned herself in his path. “He might, but you don’t.”
Waylon barely heard her. “Don’t you get it? I pinned my dad’s headshot on the dartboard at the back of the bar one year on his birthday. I hated him. I still hate him. But he…Maybe my dad and I could have fixed things before he died—maybe we wouldn’t have come here at all—if it weren’t for Melv.”
“Killing Melv won’t bring your dad back from the dead. Nothing will. But Dyer wouldn’t have wanted you to have to spend the rest of your life knowing you took someone else’s. That’s why he wrote you the letter and left you this boat. Because he loved you—in his own messed-up way. You don’t have to forgive your dad for everything he’s done, but if you kill Melv, you’ll never forgive yourself.” Fletcher cupped Waylon’s cheeks in her hands. Forced him to look at her. “We can still save ourselves. But we need to get to the bridge room.”
It took all of Fletcher’s strength to usher him down the hall. Waylon wheezed with every step, a palm massaging the sore spot on his chest. He harped, “What good does that do us without Melv’s key?”
Fletcher planted her hands against the solid expanse of his back. Even using all her body weight, Waylon barely budged. “We don’t need it. Comeon.”
His gaze met hers with a hard cut. “What do you mean ‘We don’t need it’?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you.We. Don’t. Need. It.” How could she make it more obvious? Fletcher glanced over her shoulder to make sure Melv was preoccupied with his descent toward the lower decks, probably going to try to retrieve the sinking key. As long as he wasn’t anywhere near them, she didn’t care where that miscreant slithered off to. “I’ve got the key we need.”
The skin between Waylon’s brows folded with frustration. “Did you miss the part where Jackie stole the boat key out of your hands, and then Melv shot her in the face andhestole the boat key, and then I hit him, and the boat keyflew into the ocean?”
“No,” Fletcher said calmly. She dipped into the pocket of her still-drenched khakis and pulled out a tag that readCapybara. A little silver key dangled off the end. “Jackie stoleakey out of my hands.Thatkey gets her private access to my room at the manor.Thiskey gets us home.”
Fletcher barely had time to finish her sentence before Waylon kissed her. Well and truly kissed her. With enough urgency to knock her off-balance. His hand skimmed toward the small of her back, setting her straight again.
He tasted like salt spray and yellow sunlight. As her hands twisted into his shirt, Fletcher wished she never had to open her eyes, never had to be anywhere but here: wrapped in his arms, her heart beating against his.
“You’re brilliant,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers. His fingers twined in her hand, and she let him lead her through the saloon, up a coiled staircase, and down a hall toward an oval door studded with grommets.
Alockeddoor.
Waylon, however, seemed prepared for this possibility. “Step back.”
He aimed the pistol toward the lock and fired. One bullet down. The lock snapped, and the door swung open easily. Another thin staircase spat them out at the captain’s bridge. The room, walled with panoramic windows, boasted a white-leather seat and a console with several dark screens.
Dipping into the captain’s chair, Waylon stuck the key in the ignition. One turn, and lights flashed, radars beeped. The sight of a radio was enough to bring Fletcher to tears. Another turn, and Fletcher expected a revving start, but there was nothing. Once more, the engine tried to kick but failed with a sputter.
Waylon’s hands slammed against the chart table. “Damn it. The generator’s working, but something’s wrong with the engine.”
Dread pooled in Fletcher’s chest, dripping all the way down to her knees. No way did she survive this long only to be thwarted by a faulty alternator or a slipped belt. She would never be sorry for leaving Kent, but she suddenly wished she’d paid more attention to his efforts around the shop or his droning conversations with her dad and brothers. Spark plug, this. Radiator, that.
A migraine pulsed at the base of Fletcher’s skull. She’d seen a hundred tractor engines, if only in her periphery. “If I could get to the engine room, maybe we could figure it out?”
“There’s no time for that,” Melv said from the doorway, voice slick with rage. A wad of tubing dangled from his hand. The kind typically reserved for engine bays, if Fletcher had to guess. Sabotage. “No one’s getting off this island but me.”
When Waylon moved to disarm Melv, Fletcher dove for the radio. She pressed a button, and a green light flashed on the board. Her cue. “Mayday, Mayday. We’ve been marooned at Lydell Island. Map coordinates—”
Melv stripped the radio out of her hand, tearing the cable clean out of the mic. Goodbye, radio. Any resemblance to the levelheaded,handles-himself-well-under-pressure Melv they’d seen on the docks had vanished like a mirage. Now, his olive skin was tinted red with wrath, his usually coiffed hair was a mess of black waves, and his charming smile was reduced to a vicious flash of teeth.
Desperately, Fletcher wailed on the boat horn, and its bellows shook the yacht. The dead? Probably awake now.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Melv raged. “I live. You die.”
And when threats didn’t work, he landed a jab against her cheek, and the sting shot tears to her eyes. The boat horn silenced as Fletcher stumbled, bringing a hand to her rapidly bruising face.
“There’s no rescue crew coming.” Fletcher relished the way the light in Melv’s eyes dimmed. “So, actually, now we all die, asshat.”
Grabbing Fletcher’s hand, Waylon swept her back down the tight squeeze of a staircase. The bridge door slammed behind them, and footsteps hammered as Melv chased after them.
Everything blurred together—gold fixtures, granite counters, marble floors. Finally, a set of sliding doors opened, and a rush of sea air guided them back onto the main deck. Wind whipped the ocean crests into stiff white peaks. Almost like the island itself conspired to hold them hostage. Fletcher’s gaze snagged on the horizon.
Waylon must have seen it, too. “Is that—”
