The doorway spat them back out into the hall, birds flowing to the corridor ceiling and singing as their wings flapped. And Fletcher was…lost. A 1986 edition ofJet-Settertouting a huge perm and car phone stared back at her from the wall. Useless.
She was beginning to wonder if she’d already died. If hell was an endless mansion filled with coworkers she thought liked her but clearly never did.
“This way,” Waylon urged.
As they ran, his hand found hers. Electricity sparked down her arm, everywhere his fingertips trailed. Before she could ask what he was doing, he pried open her palm and grabbed the machete’s handle.
He slammed his foot down on the blade, cracking it, before chucking the whole thing into a picture gallery. The knife bit into the floors beneath a gilt-framed Monet.
“We could have used that,” Fletcher said, not restraining the annoyance that came from the depths of her soul. Did the Cartwrights have no respect for personal property, or what?
“That was going to lead them right to us,” he said as he pushed Fletcher forward, his hand fitting neatly against the small of her back.
Her legs fought each step. Their gelatinous consistency could last only a few more feet, the breakneck pace of the afternoon finally catching up to her. Ten minutes—fiveminutes, even. That was all the breather she needed. Fletcher dragged Waylon into the nearest room, a study.
Every inch of Lydell Manor was breathtaking, but this one took the cake. Bookshelves lined all four walls. Leather armchairs and suede chaises dotted the lounge, two billiards tables populated thecenter, and at the back sat a full-size bar. If Fletcher didn’t know better, she’d think it was Waylon’s inspiration for Subtext.
Once Waylon closed the door, barricading them inside, Fletcher slumped into the nearest seat. Strands of copper hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. She’dneverbroken a sweat at work before, but there were a lot of firsts happening on this retreat.
“Give me a second.” It was almost a whimper. Her side ached like it’d been torn wide open and poorly stitched back together. Every breath burned her chest, her back, her throat. “Usually, the only running I do is running Dyer’s errands.”
Muffled down the hall, two sets of angry footsteps headed their way. Close and growing closer.
Only then did Fletcher truly take stock of their location. She’d been so wowed by the dark wood paneling and subtle grandeur, a welcome reprieve compared to the rest of the estate’s garish decor, that she’d failed to realize the study didn’t have any windows. Only one door, and the Brians aimed straight for it. A fireplace, ashes long cooled, but she lacked the upper-body strength to scale the chimney.
Which meant…
“We’re trapped.”
13
Correction: “We’re trapped, and you’re making a cocktail?”
Waylon ignored her and poured two fingers of liquor into a chilled glass. In one smooth movement, he whipped a pair of tongs from the counter and dipped into the freezer for an ice cube the size of Fletcher’s fist.
“Now? You want to make a drinknow?” Her whispers were growing angrier. Some of the strength had returned to her limbs, and she marched across the room to the bar. “What part of this sounds like a good idea?”
“The part where I’m thirsty, and you trust me.”
Fletcher didn’t have time to tell him that she’d sooner trust a middle schooler with heavy machinery than trust him because the door to the study slammed open. With remarkably fast reflexes, Waylon flung the ice cube across the library. It soared, smacking Brian in the chest as soon as he appeared in the doorway. The lump of ice splattered, and Brian wheezed, a hand resting on the sore spot beneath his breastbone.
Waylon pivoted toward Fletcher, a well-worn look of wry entertainment befalling his features. “Like I was saying.”
Fletcher dove behind the bar as a silver bullet flew toward her. Through her teeth, she snarled, “If you get tranquilized, I’m drawing on your face in permanent marker.”
The Brians had them well and truly cornered. Fletcher huddled next to the vodka and gin, working up the courage to sprint past Waylon, both Brians, and the tranquilizer gun. She’d survived the last three years just fine without Waylon. Forget their truce. The only thing he proved himself good for was a tension migraine.
Well, and he’d kept her from walking right into the Brians’ hands as they pillaged her bedroom.
And he’d made sure that she ate something so she didn’t go into a hanger-induced rage.
And, inexplicably, he hadn’t driven off without her when he could have easily stranded her in the homicide fun house.
Huh.
Before she could make up her mind about ditching him, Waylon sidestepped so that he straddled her as he plucked a paring knife from the counter. Trapping her. Lap to face.
“What are you—”
