Chapter 8
Theo’s blood stained Fletcher’s hands. It must have soaked through the blanket she’d used to stanch his wound, but with all the dying and shouting, she hadn’t noticed until she was standing alone in the conversation pit.
Well, alone-ish.
Technically, Theo’s body was still there with her.
Everyone else had retreated, she imagined, to the far corners of the estate to develop a plan.
Hopefully not a plan of attack, but Fletcher wasn’t placing any bets.
Ordinarily, she’d expect the Sales team to be day drunk in the pool while the marketers and execs took turns kissing Dyer’s ass.
But clearly, whatever screwed-up version of reality she’d been thrust into when she landed on Lydell wasn’t one that operated how she expected.
The only other living person still downstairs was Melv, rustling around in the kitchen for god knew what. When she finally convinced her feet to move, she found him with his head in one of the cabinets.
“Did you really not know?” she asked, leaning against the frame of the kitchen doorway. The words clawed out of her, unwilling talons hooked in her chest. She didn’t want the answer. But she needed it.
“That Evanston would blow a hole through Theo?” Melv asked, swiping a hand over his face as he stood.
He righted himself with a copper pot he’d stuffed to the brim with fruit, ransacked from the fridge.
For his thirtieth anniversary with the company last spring, she’d sent him a box of Harry & David pears.
Good to know it was the right choice. “Of course not.”
Fletcher shook her head. “About the will. What it was. What it meant.”
“He asked me to finalize it last month.” Melv met Fletcher’s gaze, and it settled her stomach. Like even though she was very much an adult, there was comfort in having an Adultier Adult here to help. “He was dying. I tried to talk him out of this trip, but you know Dyer. He was—”
“Adamant?”
“A pain in my ass.” Melv polished an apple with the hem of his shirt and took a thick bite.
Chewing, he added, “The language in the will isn’t explicit, but it is ironclad.
How we choose his successor is up to us and us alone.
Believe me, I didn’t know he’d include that video and practically stick a shotgun in Rick’s hand.
I thought he just wanted us to settle the details away from the public eye. ”
Dyer trusted Melv implicitly. They’d worked together for so long, it was only natural. Melv kept Dyer out of trouble and protected the company fiercely. If even Melv couldn’t talk Dyer out of stranding them on a secluded island, his mind must have really been made.
Beyond the walls of the estate, gun blasts erupted. Fletcher winced at the thought of whatever poor creature found itself at the mercy of Rick’s shotgun. Hopefully it wasn’t another colleague.
A grimace ghosted across Melv’s face. “He won’t last the week. Evanston always was too single-minded to lead.”
The week. God, the reminder that no one would come looking for them for at least five days made Fletcher’s skin all kinds of clammy.
“The rescue crew,” Fletcher croaked. She cleared her throat, trying but failing to resecure her grip on her rapidly spiraling emotions.
Nothing good ever came from crying on the job.
“Who cares about the inheritance? All we have to do is make sure we’re still around to be rescued. Then we can all go home.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath hoping anyone else is thinking as altruistically. Anything could happen in five days. In the meantime, I plan on keeping to myself.” Melv situated his stash of food on the counter. Something flickered in his gaze. “I suggest you do the same.”
His hand dipped into his fruit vat and procured half of a plastic-wrapped papaya. A peace offering. The orange fruit stared at her long after Melv retreated down the hall, leaving Fletcher alone-ish again.
She started unwrapping the pity papaya but recoiled at the sight of her nails.
Theo’s blood had dried into russet flakes around her cuticles.
Ruining her perfect manicure. Bite untaken, she dropped the produce.
There needed to be a hot shower in her immediate future, or she couldn’t be held responsible if she was the next employee to snap.
The air in the manor felt obtrusive. Her lungs strained against the lingering metallic tint, even with the windows open.
Beyond them, the pool glistened in the midday sun.
Compelling. But Fletcher craved the kind of whole-body scrub not suitable for the prying eyes of a flirty giraffe or a peeping colleague.
And, if she hiked all the way to her bedroom, there was no guarantee Waylon wouldn’t barge in, demanding a turn in their shower.
As she paced the halls, trying to find somewhere to slip in and clean off, Fletcher could barely think past the blood pounding in her ears. Bertram had been right about one thing. She never should have come here.
The thought was a clarion bell and a death knell.
Dyer hadn’t invited her. Not by accident, and not because he didn’t think she wasn’t capable of greatness…
but because he knew what he had planned for this trip.
He curated the guest list, choosing only the most ambitious, the most starved for power.
And he knew, whether he admitted it to himself or not, exactly what this week could become.
A massacre.
Suddenly, she wished she’d tagged along on more of her dad and Kent’s hunting trips. They’d dressed themselves in tans and greens, packed the truck with a couple rifles and a case of Coors, and headed out before the first rooster crowed.
They’d be gone for hours, coming home with a truck full of birds to pluck or deer to skin.
Their dinner plates would be full for weeks, the freezers stocked with game.
But sitting at the table, while Fletcher pushed food around her plate, they’d talk about the animals that got away.
The ones that were too fast, too hard to catch.
Brute force didn’t always win.
She could survive this. She could make it through the week.
The med spa came up on her right. Exactly what she needed.
Fletcher slipped between the fogged glass doors into a tranquil lounge. Vases stuffed with pampas grass sat on polished glass end tables and woven rugs spread wide across the floor. Another door waited at the far end. She nudged through it.
Crisp lines of white tile fed toward procedural rooms with heaps of machinery—Hydrafacial machines, red-light therapy masks, a line of cryotherapy chambers. There, at the far end of the hall, stood yet another fogged door labeled Mud Bath Sanctuary. Bingo.
Inside, she found three porcelain tubs, sparkling despite their intended use, and beyond them, a row of rainfall showers. She couldn’t get undressed fast enough. Twisting the silver faucet, the water ran hot enough to scald. Fletcher didn’t flinch when it burned.
She scrubbed her nail beds, desperate to remove the caked-on remnants of Theo’s veins. Strings of eucalyptus hung from the showerhead, but not even aromatherapy could unravel the knot in her stomach.
She squeezed an exorbitant amount of Oribe shampoo into her hands because she’d earned it. Today, she’d lather, rinse, and repeat. If Dyer wanted to play his mind games, the least she could do was take advantage of his bougie shampoo.
The only way out of this mess was to get off the island and go home.
Except…
Fletcher tipped her head back with a frustrated sob.
It wasn’t like she had much of a home to go back to.
Her eviction date crept closer with every passing day.
A rightful promotion was the only hope she had of staying in the city.
She was not crawling home to Kent with her dignity in shreds, even if it killed her. (And at this rate, it might.)
Where did that leave her? Casual homicide?
Dread raked down her spine as she watched Theo’s blood swirl down the drain. Streaks of burgundy paled until they disappeared entirely. She was left with soapsuds, fragrant and cleansing.
She wouldn’t kill, couldn’t kill. Not even if it meant inheriting more money than God.
A sniffling cry cut through the med spa, and Fletcher slammed the faucet off. Her pulse pounded, heart banging around her chest. Someone was here. And Fletcher was naked.
She swiped one of the cotton towels and draped it around her chest. Poking her head past the curtain, she saw no one had wandered into the mud room yet, but a voice still chattered away—no, not a voice. Voices.
Hopping across the cold tile on wet feet, Fletcher aimed for the light switches. She doused herself in darkness and pressed a listening ear to the door. Muffled words got lost, drifting to the spa’s high ceilings.
Adrenaline buzzed in every corner of Fletcher.
Ordinarily, she’d touted herself excellent at crisis response.
Her usual crises involved wrinkled cummerbunds before black-tie affairs or missing memos ahead of stakeholder meetings.
Not power-hungry coworkers cut off from society.
Her nervous system could hardly keep up.
“I don’t know what Dyer expected to happen,” one of the voices said, and Fletcher finally placed it.
Joplin strode closer, her words growing louder with each step.
“Rick’s vendetta against Theo aside, it’s not like the rest of us are going to start shooting each other. ” She’d been crying. Sniffling.
“Of course not,” Jackie responded coolly.
Fletcher sank deeper into the shadows as their silhouettes edged into view. Their shapes blurred through the glass, but there was no mistaking Joplin’s pink hair or Jackie’s red lips. Vaguely, Fletcher wondered if they could see her, shivering and swaddled in terry cloth.