A quick sweep of the layout put the clubhouse with panoramic windows to their left, and the marina to their right. Farther out into the waters sat a fuel station and a floating concierge, where she envisioned staff members radioing to coordinate the arrival of megayachts. Most of the marina was empty, reserved for guests, but there, bobbing at the far slip, was one lone ship.
No one had ever been quite as happy to see a boat as Fletcher was at this moment, barring maybe theTitanicsurvivors, teeth chattering in their lifeboats.
Spinning back to Jackie, Fletcher said, “Help me get him inside.”
“Is that how you speak to your soon-to-be manager?” Jackie asked.
The thought of joining Jackie’s staff should have churned up some modicum of excitement. A week ago, it would have. Today, not so much. All she cared about now was getting her and Waylonoff this island, whatever it took. And if that meant kissing Jackie’s ass, so be it.
“Sorry,” she grumbled. “Could youpleasehelp me get him inside?”
“Much better. We’ll have to discuss communication styles at your first review.”
Waylon was deadweight between them, head lolled against his chest. Glass doors wiped open automatically with a cloud of stiff air-conditioning that smelled like lemon disinfectant and aerosol deodorant.
Whoever designed the clubhouse deserved jail time.
There was not a single flat, soft surface in sight. Everything was polished black marble and sharp chrome edges, another gaudy chandelier dripping from the ceiling over a massive staircase that led to rows of expensive equipment, cable machines and stationary bikes and Pilates reformers.
The only two chaises in the lounge were carved from angular stone, clearly intended for looking at and not sitting on.Great.
A groan filtered through Waylon’s lips, and Fletcher felt herself take a full breath for the first time in a trillion years. He’d wake up soon. Even if he hated her guts, they could work out their apologies over bagels and lox as soon as they got off this devil island.
“Almost there,” she crooned, the same way her mother would address a scabbing knee, soft and fibbing. The nearest chaise would have to do, uncomfortable as it looked.
Finally, they heaped his body on it, propping him into a seated position, but the second Fletcher pulled her hands away, his clothes slipped against the polished granite and his spine settled into a zigzag line that would require serious massage therapy to iron out.
Fletcher slumped their backpack on the ground next to him, fishing through it to retrieve her canteen and take a long swig.
Jackie dusted off her hands on her blouse. She leaned on her golfclub, and it might as well have been Dyer leaning on his grandfather’s ivory cane, tapping the handle impatiently against the tile. “I’m going to tie up a few loose ends. Stop fussing with that brat and get me that boat key or neither one of you will live to see sunset.”
Fletcher had no doubt Jackie meant it. Her eyes had gone dark, pupils blown out with untempered greed. Whatever borrowed time Fletcher was living on, the hourglass sand was running out, fast.
“I’ll be right back,” she told Waylon’s unconscious body before creeping on quiet toes down a too-fluorescent hallway. Any key that warranted a lockbox wasn’t going to be tucked inside one of the drawers at the waterfall reception desk.
One of these rooms had to be the main office, ocean-facing so it had a clear view of oncoming ships. With each opened door, Fletcher’s hope shriveled—a waterfront yoga studio, an infrared weight room, an indoor soccer field, and a smoothie bar. Then, the plaque on the last door kick-started her heart again.
Crew Lounge.
Inside, there was the typical stuff. Keurig. Television. A ten-foot swordfish mounted above an equally long dining table. At the back, a fogged glass door led to the manager’s office, plainly decorated but the dark-wood cabinets could have been solid gold for the way Fletcher’s pulse accelerated.
The middle cabinet swung open to reveal a gray metal panel with an electronic PIN pad. With shaking fingers, Fletcher thumbed in Dyer and Tiffany’s wedding date. The numbers blinked. Red. Red. Red.
Green.
Fletcher tugged on the handle, the latch lifting with a mechanicalchug, and she heard herself gasp with relief. There, dangling off a hook, was a slim silver glint.
Boat key. Singular.
Fletcher knew what she had to do. She had to be quick, and she had to be precise. It wouldn’t be long before Jackie—
“I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” Jackie said behind her. She snatched the key into her palm. “And to think, Dyer tried to spare you all the fun of this week. He always spoke so highly of you and your ability to get a job done right. I’m not disappointed.”
In the back of Fletcher’s brain, an alarm flared. The key was in Jackie’s hands. She’d finished her assignment. Why did she feel like she was going to throw up?
“You did it, Miss Spence. Congratulations on your new promotion!”
Something wasn’t right.
