Chapter 12 #2
Melv almost certainly jogged the perimeter, itching to get his daily steps in.
Meanwhile, Bertram would be heads down, nursing a bourbon with a splash of milk like a Madison Avenue advertiser from the ’60s.
Which put him roughly in the vicinity of the conference rooms. Fletcher skipped that wing entirely.
In the afternoons, Jackie usually dipped out to meet with a personal trainer—and when Fletcher snuck past one of the workout studios, there was Jackie, strapped into a VR headset, bopping around the room with an aggressive assortment of mixed cardio moves.
Fletcher swerved past the gym and darted through a full-blown bowling alley, trying to lose the Brians while they slipped and slid on greased lanes.
She lost track of them somewhere around the concert hall, but ran into them again as they each opened doors on opposite sides of a Roman-inspired bath.
And froze.
Floating in the saltwater tub was a twelve-foot crocodile that must have wandered in, taking advantage of the disengaged fences. Gold eyes, sharp teeth. Hungry.
Fletcher gulped, eyes meeting the Brians’ as the crocodile growled, beastly head pivoting between them. Deciding who to attack first.
She slammed the door behind her and didn’t stop running until she reached a gold-and-glass atrium, lush with tropical plants.
Inside, a few wrought iron benches dotted the room.
The kind of place that looked like its only purpose was for tea parties or clandestine meetings.
Birdsong chirped from the palm fronds, a few parrots flitting from tree to tree.
The windows boasted an unimpeded view of the savanna. Grasses billowed in the wind. In the distance, a herd of zebras gathered, a mirage against the horizon. And at the far side of the room? A second arched door.
Salvation if she’d ever seen it. If she could make it outside, she could circle back to the garage from the exterior and avoid the Brians completely.
To catch her breath, she ducked behind a leafy palm with waxy leaves fanning toward the glass ceiling. Its trunk slanted into a beautifully manicured planter, spilling with plumeria and ginger lilies.
This was fine. Everything was going to be totally fine.
Or it was, until something splattered on the curve of Fletcher’s shoulder.
Wet. Sticky.
Fletcher peeled her eyes upward, half expecting some medieval torture contraption dangling from the ceiling with one of her colleagues strapped to it.
An exhale. No ceiling fan murder devices here.
Instead, it was a giant blue bird. The macaw responsible flapped its wings, happily unaware that it had defecated on her shoulder. Just a bunch of birds, pissed off about being trapped inside the atrium glass.
She knew the feeling.
Helplessly, Fletcher straightened the hem of her dress. It did nothing to fix the vile white splotch on her shoulder, but didn’t some people say that getting pooped on by a bird was good luck?
Just when her breathing returned to normal, a voice behind her whispered, “Bull’s-eye.”
Ice ran through Fletcher’s veins, fear jolting down her spine. She pivoted on her heels, swinging her machete up, and her mouth opened to scream.
Waylon’s sharp glare stopped her cold.
The knife fell and so did her heart rate. Three weeks ago, she would have laughed in the face of anyone who tried to tell her she’d feel any semblance of relief to see Waylon Cartwright.
“Good rule of thumb? Don’t sneak up on someone holding a freaking machete,” she hissed.
An extra duffel had been slung around Waylon’s chest, half unzipped with silver, holographic fabric poking out. Glamping supplies, presumably. Their backpacks were gone—he must have stashed them in the garage already.
Slowly, Waylon’s eyebrows cinched tighter. “Why do you have a machete?”
“One day, after tens of thousands of dollars in therapy, I’ll tell you.”
“What happened to lying low?” he asked, an edge to his voice.
“I am lying low.” Now was seriously not the time for a lecture.
He cocked his head. “Just like how you were supposed to be meeting me in the garage twelve minutes ago?”
“Been a little busy.” As if he couldn’t tell based solely on the frizz fiasco happening beneath her helmet, Molly’s blood caked on her dress, and the totally relaxed way her shoulders scraped against her earlobes. “I thought you said you were going to leave without me.”
He huffed, a low grumble of a noise. “I still might.”
Footsteps hammered down the hall, and Fletcher braced her hand against Waylon’s stomach, nudging him behind the tree. “Get back. Bertram sent the Brians after me again.”
“I don’t think it’ll take them long to find you.”
Fletcher squinted. “Do you really think I’m so incompetent that I can’t shake off the Brians?”
“No, I don’t think it’ll take long because you’re leading them right to you.” He tipped his chin downward, and Fletcher’s gaze followed.
Blood trailed down the machete’s silver blade.
A pool of maroon had gathered at her heels.
A few feet away, several garnet droplets welled on the tiles.
And a few more, and a few more, and a few more.
All the way to the atrium entrance where two moon-eyed marketers appeared, sniffing like bloodhounds.
“We have to get out of here,” she whispered.
“No shit,” Waylon said. The second Fletcher tried to get moving, he shook his head. “Can’t go that way.”
“The way toward the exit?” The arched doorway had Safety Right This Way! written all over it.
“Trust me. Deepti’s naked in the solarium, doing god only knows what, and she does not want visitors.” He pointed to his actively blackening eye socket as proof.
Of course. “Sunning.”
“What?”
“That’s what it’s called. When you get naked and flash your—”
Birds frenzied as the atrium doors opened.
The Brians were splitting up, each scoping out a side of the room, and the Brian with the tranquilizer gun was coming their way.
It would take more than a parlor palm to hide Waylon’s broad shoulders.
As soon as Brian turned the corner around a fountain shaped like Egbert Cartwright riding a rhino, he had a clear shot.
“Run!” said Waylon.
Silver bullets zipped by them, each one closer than the last. She cast Waylon a glance that must have said, If I get killed because I listened to you, you’re dead to me because he nodded and took a sharp left behind a trellis of climbing hibiscuses.
Fletcher followed, breathing easier now that they were beyond the reach of Brian’s nose scope.
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 of Jet-Setter touting 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—five minutes, 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 the center, 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’d never broken 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.”