Jackie holstered the gun through the slack of her Gucci belt—not exactly stellar firearm-safety procedures—and took a step toward Dyer’s wing, the shadows that lay in wait. Primed to disappear, at least until it was time to strike again. “Then we have a deal.”
As she turned to leave, a smile flicked Jackie’s lips upward, equal parts innocent and sinister. Like this was an ordinary afternoon chat and not the most macabre quid pro quo that has ever existed.
Fletcher, meanwhile, tried to remember how to get her lungs to function. How hard could it be to suck air in and spit it out? She braced herself against the doorframe until her blood oxygen levels returned to normal operating standards.
Two days. Forty-eight measly hours. That was all the time Fletcher had to find a boat key and make it to the other side of the island. Her best chance at getting off Lydell Island alive.
9
HowFletcher would get the boat key was a different question altogether.
At this rate, if one of her coworkers didn’t kill her, starvation would. Her appetite hadn’t reared its head all day, but she was officially running on fumes. Usually, her stomach could win Olympic gold in pretending iced coffee counted as food, but Lydell wouldn’t go easy on her. She wouldn’t be able to make it across the island if she didn’t find something to eat. If she timed it right, she might be able to squeeze into the butler’s pantry for shelf-stable rations while everyone else polished off the caviar and champagne.
Then, there was the unfortunate truth that Fletcher only vaguely knew where the marina was. Her responsibilities rarely extended to Lydell’s borders. All the prep work and planning fell to Fletcher, but as groundskeeper, Carlotta executed each assignment and kept the island well-oiled. Not that she was going to admit that to Jackie. The last thing Fletcher wanted was to give her a reason to see her as disposable. She barely trusted Jackie as it was.
Plus, the ever-present mental tally of living coworkers was being whittled away.
Theo, Joplin, and Raul—gone. Every semireasonable person who had rightfully protested this madness was getting picked off one by one.
Which left Rick, parading around the savanna. Jackie with her silver pistol. Deepti and Bertram, the remnants of upper management. Sheila, blatantly unaware of her surroundings, and Opal probably not much better. The Brians and Molly and Melv.
Waylon, unfortunately.
Eleven. Twelve, counting herself.
She was so deep in thought she didn’t notice her bedroom door had been flung open until she stood right there in front of it. Which was weird because she hadn’t left it like that.
Her pace slowed to a creep, and Fletcher peeked her head around the jamb, only to rock back on her heels in shock. The door had been forced off its hinges, no finesse about it, and the Brians. Were. In. There.
They’d thrown half her belongings on the floor. What was the point of meticulously folding her clothes into the dresser if they were going to get trampled on by two yahoos who spent company time beefing with Reddit memelords?
As if sensing her proximity, Brian glanced over his shoulder, and Fletcher flattened herself against the wall. The hallway behind her was bald as a colophon margin. Nothing to duck behind, nothing to use to defend herself. If she stayed here, they’d see her, skin her alive, and use her hide as a new rug in the Paid Ads office.
Shit.
Hands smacked across Fletcher’s mouth. The grip was so tight, she staggered backward, hitting something rock-solid.
Abs. Those were abs.
And it didn’t take rocket science to know whose.
Fletcher dug her elbow into the torso, aiming toward a kidney or at least a ticklish spot. Anything to loosen Waylon’s death grip. Nothing worked. He peeled her over the threshold into his bedroom and clicked the door shut behind them.
Blond curlicues dripped over his brow, fresh from his shower. The whole room still smelled like soap. No sooner than he set her down did he mime a zipper over his mouth and hers for good measure.
Fletcher unzipped her mouth with a frown. Hushed, she barked, “What are you doing? Leave me alone.”
Waylon shook his head, his scowl deepening. In a series of poorly communicated charades, he wagged his fingers toward the bathroom, made binoculars of his fists, and then crossed his torso with a dramaticX.
Fletcher stared until she was certain he was finished, and then whisper-shouted, “Spit it out.”
The hard cut of his sapphire eyes could draw blood. Still, he committed to the bit and mimed unzipping his lips before saying, “If you go in there right now, you’re dead. Russo and Dunlap are looking for you.”
The Brians’ government names caught Fletcher off guard, but no more than Waylon saving her from waltzing in on their siege. Acting selflessly wasn’t exactly in his repertoire.
Fletcher migrated toward the conjoined bathroom, nearly tripping over a room service platter with picked-at leftovers from what looked like a late-night snack. His room was double the size of hers with a duvet spilling over the side of the bed and a pile of dirty clothes in the corner. If she didn’t know better, she could have believed the Paid Ads knuckleheads had already ransacked his room.
Waylon followed her, and when they reached Fletcher’s door, they stacked over each other, pressing their ears to the seam.
