As if that were a totally normal sentence for her to say.
“And besides,” she added, “the estate hasamenities. Hot showers, cold plunges, toiletries that cost half my biweekly paycheck. Rick’s the only one ignorant enough to leave the manor right now. Everyone else will wait for someone to make the first move.”
That person had to be Fletcher.
Her agreement with Waylon went only as far as it needed to. As soon as she had the key in hand, she’d join Jackie on the boat and say goodbye to Lydell Island forever. But it wasn’t like she was leaving Waylon todie. With those muscles? He’d fight his way through the week, no problem.
Marigold daylight sliced through the slatted windows and her thoughts. The afternoon was dwindling. Fast. If she couldn’t get him on board soon, they’d be hiking across the island under cloak of night, and Fletcher wasn’t super keen on meeting Lydell’s nocturnal predators.
“Well, we have to do something,” she said, marching back across the room to stand toe-to-toe with Waylon. Nothing riled him up like a challenge. “If you hate my plan so much, do you have any brilliant ideas?”
Waylon hauled a couple canvas backpacks onto the card table and shoveled supplies deep into their folds, including a change of clothes for each of them. “We’re definitely not going straight to the marina.”
Fletcher huffed so hard she coughed. And then tried to cover up her huff-cough with an agreeable smile, despite how her eyes watered. The Waylon histamines were growing stronger, and she didn’t pack any Zyrtec.
“The key to the boat is in a lockbox,” Waylon finally said, takingpity on her. Annoyance and amusement flitted behind his eyes. He enjoyed this, egging her on.
“And the lockbox is…”
“Locked.”
“Right,” Fletcher said. She cocked a hip against the table, hoping her disappointment looked store-brand, not theI’m next in line for the cryotherapy chambervariety. “But you know how to getintothe lockbox?”
Waylon shrugged. “Carlotta always did it for us.”
“Do you even hear yourself sometimes?”
Fletcher tried to grab the other backpack to claim it for herself, but Waylon slammed his hand down on the table, blocking her. “I get it. I’m a Cartwright. How long are you going to hold my last name against me?”
“When it stops being applicable! God forbid you’re asked to be responsible for your own boat key.”
Waylon’s cheeks reddened with frustration. “She’s the groundskeeper! She was keeping the grounds!”
“It’s. A. Boat. It’s not even on the ground.”
Fletcher inhaled so steeply she felt it all the way in her toes. Smoothing out her dress, she grasped at any semblance of composure. Which, with Waylon’s oversaturated blue eyes on her, was kind of like trying to fill a fax machine with rice paper.
“Point is,” she said, forcibly moving Waylon’s arm out of her way. It went limp by his side as she gained full control of her backpack. “Carlotta must have the master key, so we can get it and get off this godforsaken island.”
And away from Waylon.
Forever.
Waylon looped a compass around his neck, the brass hitting his sternum. “Of course, let me call her— Oh, wait. She’s gone.”
“Her office isn’t, though.” Fletcher pointed toward the smudged building near the center of the map. “We’ll head toward the staff building. If it’s anywhere on the island, it has to be there.”
She could feel their next steps solidifying in her mind, the satisfying click of fitting into place. The scaffolding gave her something to hold on to, a ladder to climb, a test to ace.
All she needed was the map.
Sourcing a cocktail napkin and a fountain pen she had to dab against her tongue a few times to convince to write, Fletcher started sketching. A curved line there. A sharp peak of the mountain here.
Waylon hovered over her shoulder. “Is now the time for arts and crafts?”
“I’m making a copy of the map so that we can actually find our way. It’s not like we have Google Maps.”
She was pretty sure he laughed at her. But then a pith helmet sank over her eyes. When she nudged the bill so that she could see again, it was just in time to watch Waylon grab a pair of hefty yellow binoculars.
