Chapter 8 #2
Joplin wiped beneath her nose, stalling entirely too close to the door for Fletcher’s liking. “Waylon didn’t say anything to me. Do you think he knew? We’ve always been close, but…not close enough for him to give me a heads-up that his dad was a psychopath?”
Whatever kind of wretched jealous thing reared its head inside Fletcher’s chest was none of her business. So what? Waylon and Joplin had nicknames, and she’d climbed all over him in the pool—of course they were close.
Jackie laughed. “You needed this to convince you? This industry has always been vicious, and Dyer was the worst of them all.”
A snorting sound followed. “Thanks for this. Talking about it with me, I mean. I feel like nothing makes any sense anymore.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice. I could hear your wailing three doors down.”
“Sorry, I’m a Pisces,” Joplin said, a little levity finding its way back into her voice.
The outline of Jackie’s arm landed on Joplin’s, guiding her back toward the front of the spa. Their voices drifted with them. “Rick’s always had a few screws loose. There are smarter ways to accomplish what he wanted.”
Wait…
What?
Fletcher should have moved. Should have spoken up. Should have told them that no one else had to die, but Jackie’s words were a knife to her throat, forcing her silence.
Something crashed, then twinkled. A lot like a plate of metal instruments skittering across the floor.
Maybe…Joplin tripped?
Another bang proved that theory unlikely.
Fletcher’s stomach plummeted into kneecap territory as Joplin groaned, then yelped.
A series of tinny beeps sounded, followed by a distinctly mechanical thunk.
After that, everything quieted, save the clicking of tasteful heels and the latching of the med spa door.
Until the screaming started.
Fletcher eased open the door, praying the hinges wouldn’t squeak. There was no telling what she’d find out there—and she didn’t want to fall in the crosshairs. But the spa floor was empty, the lights dimmed. Only a flashing blue LED illuminated the hallway.
A flashing blue light that, admittedly, wasn’t on before.
Fletcher tightened her towel and dared to go out into the main floor. The banging didn’t stop, but as she neared the lights, the screaming became more coherent: “Jackie, you bitch!”
The closer Fletcher got, the more obvious the blue blinking light became. The cryotherapy chamber had been turned on. With Joplin inside. And the blue light? That would be the lock.
Fletcher skidded in front of the glass wall separating her from Joplin. The designer’s eyes flared—hope quickly replacing fear. Fletcher hadn’t been able to save Theo. But Joplin wasn’t dead.
Yet.
Frost already lined her lashes. Blue tinted her lips.
“I’m going to get you out,” Fletcher said, but it was hard to hear herself over Joplin’s continued shrieking: “Hurry up! I’m going to kill Jackie!”
Perhaps some sense could be talked into Joplin when her skin wasn’t at risk of turning black and chipping right off.
Fletcher pivoted toward the backlit screen controlling the chamber. A big blue lock icon floated in the middle, and every time Fletcher jammed the buttons, a robotic voice chimed, “Chamber is in use. Chamber is in use.”
“I want it to not be in use,” Fletcher said.
“Chamber is in use,” the voice responded.
Come on. There had to be an emergency shutoff somewhere, right? Or maybe a power cord Fletcher could cut? But the chamber had been built inside the wall for a seamless finish. Sleek, sophisticated, and a complete safety hazard.
If she wanted to get Joplin out, she was going to have to break through the door.
Sparkling frost limned the glass’s edge.
The on-screen thermometer read -50 degrees Celsius.
And dropping. Machines like this easily reached -130 degrees.
They were meant to be microdosed, but the timer wasn’t dwindling near fast enough.
Instead of a matter of minutes, Jackie had set the timer for an hour, and the override wasn’t responding.
Something heavy. She needed something heavy.
Scouring her surroundings, Fletcher searched for anything she could ram against the triple-paned door. As she pulled open drawers, there were Kybella syringes and single-blade razors.
“Holy fuck, what is taking so long?” Joplin bemoaned, a ch-ch-ch-chatter in her teeth with every word. The thermometer reading plummeted. No sign of stopping anytime soon.
Fletcher spun. Finally, her eyes locked onto the facial machine sitting neatly on a metal rolling cart. It had tentacle tubes protruding from every direction, but Fletcher wasn’t particularly concerned with that. She grabbed the cart and pushed, feet kicking, until it smashed into the glass door.
A hairline fracture, if anything.
She tried again, this time getting a running start. Her towel threatened to slip down, so Fletcher clamped her elbows to her sides as the cart slammed against the cryo chamber. The impact jolted her backward, rattled her teeth.
“Maybe I can get someone to help.” Desperation clawed through Fletcher’s voice. “Waylon, I can get Waylon.”
“Waylon?” Joplin’s usual volume quickly waned.
“Yes, Waylon! You like Waylon! Bubbles, right?”
Joplin’s teeth chattered. “Champagne. Long story.”
“I’m going to get help, and I’ll be right back, I promise.”
In response, the designer’s frigid body slumped against the glass, hands frozen to the door handle but unable to open it.
“Joplin? Joplin. Can you hear me?”
“Tell Waylon, I never liked Eliza. Tell him—” Joplin slurred, but Fletcher never found out what came next.
She recognized Joplin’s absence the moment it came, the flame inside snuffing out in the cold, her eyes glazed and emptied.
And that made two.
Jackie killed Joplin.
Jackie, the editor in chief.
Or maybe she could be promoted to CMO. If CMO actually stood for Chief Murder Officer.
Which made two of Fletcher’s current remaining colleagues known killers. The ratio of trustworthy people at Cartwright Media evaporated like water in the Sahara. The shock left Fletcher hollow.
She couldn’t blink away Joplin’s lifeless stare. No matter how many times she squeezed her eyes shut and pried them back open, she saw Joplin, frost-slicked and angry.
Fletcher had left her there. All things considered, Joplin would be preserved just fine. Maybe science would advance far enough they could thaw her out a hundred years from now, good as new. If Fletcher won the inheritance, she’d fund the initiative herself.
With Joplin gone, Fletcher’s mission had only solidified. The sooner she got off this island, the better.
A deadly game had begun, and Fletcher refused to be responsible for taking someone’s life. She’d never be able to live with the guilt. The blood on her hands would eat her away like hungry rust.
Ford’s voice rang through her head: You’re always one step ahead. There had to be another way off this island. Something that wouldn’t require her to sit around waiting to be murdered for 120 hours until a rescue crew came.
Of course, it would be easier to escape if she weren’t wearing this robe.
She’d swiped one of the spa’s mulberry silk robes after pointedly deciding to leave her clothes heaped on the med spa floor, stained as they were.
Fresh, clean clothes, and she’d feel…well, not like a million bucks, but at least like her five-figure salary.
As she neared the yawning accordion doors to the patio, shouting halted Fletcher in her tracks.
“So, that’s that? You’re as bad as him,” Raul was saying. Fury painted his face in shades of red.
Fletcher tiptoed toward the door and craned her neck around the edge, but she couldn’t see who Raul was yelling at. Jackie, if she had to guess.
The other half of the conversation must have responded unkindly because Raul faltered backward, barely halting at the lip of the pool. “Don’t do this,” he begged. It wasn’t a good look for him.
Meanwhile, Sheila stretched across one of the chaises, a silver reflector perched beneath her chin. Sunglasses had been tugged down over her eyes, and earbuds poked in her ears. Noise-canceling, presumably. Her head bobbed to an unheard beat.
The intern didn’t notice the spit flying out of Raul’s mouth. Didn’t hear the crack of a pistol. Didn’t smell the smoke or feel the splash of pool water lapping beneath her lounge chair as Raul rocked onto his heels, sinking into the deep end.
Fletcher bit into her cheek to keep from screaming.
The chlorinated water swirled red. Raul floated limply, linen suit jacket splaying around him as pool jets whirlpooled the CTO clockwise. Up Fletcher’s throat climbed the sour taste of bile—her empty stomach didn’t have much else to give.
She sagged against the doorframe. Three. Three of her colleagues dead in as many hours since she discovered Dyer was the lion lunch du jour. At this rate, Fletcher could forget about surviving the week. She’d be lucky to survive the day.
Beneath her, Fletcher’s feet dragged her toward the staircase. Too slowly. As she passed the next breezeway, someone cornered her. Cold metal pressed to the nape of Fletcher’s neck.
“Here’s the thing, Fletcher.” She recognized Jackie’s voice immediately, and it was like slurping a Szechuan’s lo mein noodle down the wrong pipe. “I don’t need you trying to undo my handiwork. Joplin was taken care of.”
Words came much more easily when the barrel of one of Dyer’s death machines wasn’t rammed up against her spinal cord, and Fletcher barely managed to mumble a stream of gibberish.
Jackie leaned in, spearmint breath hot against Fletcher’s ear. “You can’t tell me you really wanted Joplin to inherit the company. Not after everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve done for Dyer all these years.”
“Joplin was an amazing designer,” Fletcher said, remarkably eloquent, given the circumstances.
The barrel nudged closer, metal growing warm. “But?”