The spider plummeted to the floor and righted itself, rearing back for another deadly attack.
“It’s just Arnold Schwarzenegger,” Waylon said, way calmer than any single naked person should sound in the presence of a creature that unholy.
Fletcher swore Arnold shot her a judgy look. Her chest heaved. “What do you meanjustArnold Schwarzenegger? Younamed the tarantula?”
“Technically, I think he’s a huntsman spider.” Waylon flipped a wicker basket over and contained the spider. Barely. The basket shuffled toward Fletcher with a vendetta. This was a million times worse than the bush baby. This spider ate bush babies for breakfast.
She hopped on the bed, though it hardly seemed safe now, and shook out one of the blankets before swaddling herself in it, just to be sure Arnold didn’t bring any body-building friends. “I’m sorry. Just so I’m clear. When did you and Mr.Schwarzenegger become so well acquainted?”
“Twelve hours ago, give or take. We made introductions while you were in the shower.”Made introductions. Like they met for coffee to discuss next quarter’s stretch goals. “I trapped him under the basket last night, but I guess he got out.”
“Youguess?”
The basket lurched on cue. Fletcher inched back toward the headboard, determined to put as much distance as possible between her and Arnold, in case he decided to reprise his role as the Terminator.
“I am not nearly clothed enough for this,” she said before unceremoniously yanking the heap of khaki off the floor and marching downstairs, wearing the blanket like a royal cape. Waylon’s amused laugh followed after her.
Fletcher took advantage of hot running water with another shower. She dressed quickly, back in Waylon’s shirt and a clean pairof too-loose trousers but this time with a typical number of undergarments, much to Waylon’s dismay.
She hadn’t meant to wander into Tiffany’s office, but curiosity got the best of her. Curiosity, and a leather case on the painted desk in a familiar shape. Fletcher couldn’t help the way her breath lodged at the back of her throat, hope sprouting between her ribs.
With careful fingers, she unlatched the buckle and opened the lid, revealing the sleek black-and-silver body of a Leica camera. In one of the pockets there was a roll of film Fletcher uncapped and slotted in with shaking fingers. (This camera was easily worth two months of rent.)
She clipped a leather strap to the camera and hung it around her neck, feeling like gravity had returned for the first time since she left New York.
Peeling the viewfinder up to her eye, Fletcher saw the studio in a new light. The way the sun rays filtered through the arched window, how the jungle tapped against the pane, asking to be let in. For a moment, everything else disappeared.
This.This was why she wanted to be a photographer.
As the lens came into focus, so did Fletcher’s resolve. Her future as a photographer couldn’t be collateral damage from this hellish company retreat. One way or another, she’d find her footing in the industry.
When a blanched Waylon halted in the doorway, dressed in a fresh T-shirt and black pants, Fletcher clutched the camera to her chest, caught. A reticent pink seeped into her cheeks. “I should have asked. Do you mind…?”
But Waylon didn’t answer. He’d gone totally catatonic. The envelope from Dyer dripped from his fingertips, plucked from where they’d forgotten it on the counter last night.
“Waylon?” Her mouth gave his name too many syllables. Dragged out theWay, drifted off with thelon.“What is it?”
“There is no rescue crew.”
“What?”
Once more: “There is no rescue crew.”
Fletcher’s heart got the memo, pulse skipping and blood pressure rising, but her brain couldn’t catch up. “What do you mean?”
“Thereisno rescue crew, Fletcher.”
She stepped closer. “What’d the letter say?”
He shifted his weight onto the doorframe. Defeat dragged down his shoulders, his spine. Limply, he raised the envelope to her.
Waylon hadn’t opened it neatly. Toothy paper snags rimmed the seam, and Fletcher unfolded the single piece of paper that had been tucked inside. There was nothing personal about it. Typed on company letterhead and signed with crisp blue ink, the way all Dyer Cartwright correspondences were.
Waylon,
By now I’m gone, and Cartwright Media’s fate rests in your hands as we always knew it would someday. I apologize that someday came sooner than either of us hoped.
On the flash drive, you’ll find my last will and testament along with a video I’ve recorded for everyone. Everything I say is true, unless you count lying by omission as a falsehood. The whole truth is this: I’ve made more mistakes than I can count. My trusted confidants proved untrustworthy. I was made to believe you were unsuitable to lead and told that the company would fail if I let you inherit it.
