“Are you sure this is the right room?” Other Brian asked.
Somethingthunked. Her suitcase, maybe? “Gotta be. Bertram said he saw the bitch come this way after talking with Molly last night. If we don’t find out what she knows, we’re next. She’s got to have notes around here somewhere.”
Fletcher bit on her lip to keep from gasping. For starters, she wasnota bitch, thank you very much. Secondly, whatever information they thought they’d find here, they wouldn’t. During her first year at Cartwright Media, Fletcher had relied heavily on a chunky white binder—five inches, three-ringed, and tabbed to her heart’s content. Eventually, as she committed everything to memory, she stopped lugging it around. And thirdly, it was obvious Bertram didn’t think she belonged here. That much he’d made readily apparent. Sending his goons after her was a new low.
The shuffling on the other side grew increasingly closer. Fletcher moved on instinct, shoving her hands against Waylon’s chest and pushing him into the shower. The tiles were still slick from his last rinse, and their entry was, to put it politely, indelicate.
Her hands grappled for purchase, finding only fistfuls of him. Waylon caught her by the hip. When she looked up, they were entirely too close and her robe entirely too thin. The curve of her breasts pressed against his shirt, and underneath, he was all sinewed muscles and veins. His grip on her waist stiffened almost reflexively. A wet heat palmed at her belly.
They’d been like this once before. Close enough to kiss.
The door flung open, and whatever passed between them evaporated like steam from a sauna. Fletcher blinked her libido back into her body. Their proximity was for survival. Nothing more, nothing less.
Neither of them breathed as the Brians marched into the bathroom. It wasn’t the world’s most original hiding spot—or even agood one, considering the drawn curtain would do little to protect them. All either Brian had to do was so much as glance in their general direction, and they’d be found.
Waylon seemed to know it, too. His entire body tensed, muscles contracting. A predator ready to pounce.
Before anyone could make a move, footsteps sounded in the hallway. Distant, but closing in. Fletcher didn’t need to see the Brians to know the glance they exchanged. The silent way they communicated. It wasn’t until they’d left her room that Fletcher inhaled again. Even then, it was shallow.
Waylon extricated himself from the shower without another word, and Fletcher could hardly blame him. That wasn’t the team-building exercise she thought she’d be joining this week. But as he wandered back toward his bedroom, her gaze wandered after him.
“There’s one other thing,” she said carefully. “Joplin’s gone.”
He backtracked, framed by his door to the bathroom. “Gone?”
“Dead.”
Waylon didn’t exactly move, but something shifted. Like his gravitational force changed, his knees shuddering against the weight. “Dead. How.”
It was supposed to be a question, Fletcher wagered.
“Hypothermia.”
“In this heat?” His grip on the doorframe tightened. Trying to hold himself up.
“Also, she said she never liked Eliza.”
“She told you that?” Hoarse grief coated his words.
“I’m just the messenger. Don’t—” Fletcher tried to say, but Waylon caught her by the arm and dragged her back into his room.
He hauled Fletcher toward the plush edge of his unmade bed, and shethumped down onto the memory foam mattress.
“Don’t kill me,” she said.
“What part ofthismakes you think I’m the one trying to kill you?”
Waylon now stood approximately four feet away. Brows knitted together, hands empty by his sides. Somehow, being alone with him felt more dangerous than both Brians and Bertram combined.
“The part where people keep dying in gruesome manners.”
“Is there an ungruesome way to die?” he asked. “Who did it?”
“Killed Joplin?” Fletcher asked.
She swallowed Jackie’s name. The editor in chief offered her safe passage—or, at least,saferpassage. But it wouldn’t hurt to have a plan B.
A new idea percolated at the back of Fletcher’s mind. Even if Dyer was crazy enough to strand the rest of them here, he wouldn’t sacrifice his only son. He’d give Waylon an exit plan, an escape route.
