Chapter 26 #2
Fletcher squeezed her eyes closed. Every late night and too-early morning revolving around Dyer’s needs led her right here.
To this marina where everything smelled like brine and pressure-treated wood.
She had no hobbies, one best friend, and a mile-long to-do list that would never get done.
God, that would haunt her in the afterlife.
Her ghost would trail aimlessly around the Cartwright Media office, refilling the copy machine with paper and restocking the break room fridge.
What would her family be told? Who would send them flowers, if not her?
Her replacement would be some hotter, younger version of her with a future twice as bright.
She’d fare the same. This company would take everything she had to give: her nights and weekends; her hopes and dreams; her life, if she let it.
The pistol fired—a blast that rang in Fletcher’s ears.
After deciding that ears probably didn’t ring postmortem, she held tighter to Waylon, expecting his body to go limp as his life seeped out and his heart stalled. Her eyelids pinched tighter.
A thump vibrated the dock beneath her feet.
Waylon was still standing, his heart still beating.
Opening her eyes took some convincing. When she did…
Jackie splayed across the dock. A lovesick smile spread across her painted mouth, but a bullet wedged between her eyes. Fletcher’s knees buckled at the sight.
“You’re fine,” Waylon gasped. His hands flattened against Fletcher’s shoulders as he peeled her back to examine her and all her intact limbs. Tension carved grooves in his face, his jaw clenched as if still bracing for the blow that never came. “I thought—”
“I know.” Her head rested against his chest. “I know, but I’m fine. We’re fine.”
His throat worked with a stiff swallow. “Our definitions of ‘fine’ are very different. He has a gun and the boat key.”
Fletcher’s attention snapped back to Melv, where, across the dock, he snaked the key from Jackie’s pocket. Smoke wafted off the muzzle of the killing pistol. Catching Fletcher’s eye, a proud smirk glazed over his lips. It sank a pit in her stomach.
They had to get on the yacht, and fast.
“It’s okay, because—”
“Do you know how long I’ve worked with your father?” Melv asked, his voice way too relaxed for the circumstances.
Waylon fumbled, eyes flickering like he was searching his brain for the right information, but Fletcher aced this pop quiz because she’d written off an expensive-ass box of golden pears.
“Thirty years,” she croaked.
Melv paced toward them. With each step, he popped open the magazine and dropped bullets one by one by one into the sea. Somehow, it felt more menacing than firing at their hearts. “Thirty years. Longer than little Waylon’s been alive. Thirty years of loyalty apparently meant nothing in the end.”
“But we sent you the pears.”
He ignored Fletcher, which she wagered was the best thing he could be doing with regard to her at this precise moment. Much better than the expected massacre. His attention was locked onto Waylon alone.
“Your father wanted to leave you everything,” said Melv, mouth warping into an ugly frown. Another ammunition shell splashed into the sea foam. “Luckily, I was his trusted adviser. I barely had to do any heavy lifting to convince him you weren’t ready or willing to take over the company.”
“You. This whole time, it was you.” A vein ticked at the base of Waylon’s neck. “Advising my dad to cut me out? The no-contact agreement?”
“You’d already done the hard part. The rift between you and Dyer broke his heart. After Tiffany died, you were all he had, and you wanted nothing to do with him. He offered you the job as an olive branch, and you snapped it in half.”
“Shut up,” Waylon gritted through clenched teeth.
“Don’t be mad at me. It’s not my fault your father’s dead.
When I suggested he go out in style, he was all too eager to agree.
Coming here, forcing everyone to survive in the wild without chef-made meals or precious cell service while arguing over who became his successor—he truly believed it would be the catalyst Cartwright’s next leader needed to rise to the occasion. ”
“He’s not shooting us,” Waylon whispered. “Why isn’t he shooting us?”
“Shh, he’s monologuing.” Fletcher dragged Waylon back an inch, then another.
They reached the end of the dock where the slip jutted out. The yacht—a behemoth of white and chrome with pale blue script that read Tiffany etched on the side—must have been two hundred feet long. A wooden gangway had been drawn out at the end, connecting the boat to the dock for boarding.
All they had to do was get across the passerelle. If they made it on the boat, they’d be fine. All of this would be over.
Melv’s soliloquy continued. “But Dyer always was too soft, down underneath it all. Wouldn’t agree to the trip if we didn’t invite you.
He wanted me to make sure you inherited this scrap of useless land for some sentimental reason, but I didn’t mind.
Luring you out here only meant it was that much easier to get rid of you. ”
With a click, the pistol chamber snapped shut. Two bullets remained.
“So, this is where I leave you. On beautiful Lydell. Don’t worry, I’ll take the liberty of letting the rescue crew know their services will no longer be needed.
” A gleam shone in Melv’s ink-dark eyes, like the drip of a fountain pen, already dry.
He slid the gun across the dock, far out of reach.
“A bullet for each of you. You can decide who gets killed and who has to kill themself. Fun, don’t you think?
” His other hand waved the key. Victorious.
“And when you look up from hell, I’ll be sitting in Dyer’s penthouse office, staring longingly at all the zeros in my bank account. ”
Fletcher bristled with the knowledge of how many zeros were already in his bank account, given the kind of paychecks he received as general counsel. Melv could inherit the world, and it would never be enough.
Propelled by greed, Melv shoved past Waylon, nearly toppling him into the churning sea. Hooking his fingers around the dock post, Waylon barely stayed upright. Fletcher caught him by the front of his shirt.
“Are you okay?” she gasped.
“Don’t let him leave us here,” Waylon said as he took off running. “I’ll grab the gun!”
Racing down the slip, Fletcher leaped onto the Tiffany’s extended gangway. Obviously, she’d never seen the captain’s quarters of a gazillion-dollar megayacht with her own eyes, but she imagined a giant spoked wheel, some levers, maybe a big red button or two. Couldn’t be that hard to miss.
Unfortunately, this boat was big enough to be a sovereign city-state. She didn’t have time to waste getting lost.
Up ahead, Melv zipped across a deck splattered with cushioned chaises and striped umbrellas. Perfect. He’d lead her right where she needed to go.
With a glance behind, Melv’s lip curled in a snarl when he spotted her. The lawyer broke into a run, all that marathon stamina making it look easy. Curse his runner’s endurance. She lost sight of him as he veered through the glass doors of the saloon toward a spiral staircase to the upper decks.
Fletcher slowed, nursing the stitch in her side, when a very familiar canvas bag slumped against the saloon doors caught her eye.
Jackie must have loaded it. Digging inside, she found the camera she’d stashed.
Not that she really craved to remember this moment for the rest of her life, but at the very least, the flash might blind Melv momentarily.
Waylon found her as she looped the camera strap over her neck. Pistol in hand, he asked, “Where’d he go?”
“Up,” Fletcher answered. “But Waylon, forget the key. We just need to find the bridge room.”
“This way.”
The endless spiraling steps and the threat of getting marooned on Lydell dueled to see which one could make Fletcher dizzier. Thankfully, they found Melv on the second-level deck, darting toward a narrow staircase labeled Personnel Only.
Before Fletcher could stop him, Waylon sprang into action. He closed the gap between them and Melv, tearing a white-and-red lifesaver off the wall on his way. As he thrust the float around Melv’s shoulders, the lawyer rocked back against the deck railing, arms pinched by his side.
Waylon easily pried the key out of Melv’s fingers. “It’s not polite to take what isn’t yours.”
In response, Melv headbutted Waylon’s sternum.
A sympathy whoosh of air rocketed out of Fletcher’s lungs.
Gasping, Waylon staggered into the wall while the lawyer shimmied out of his nautical trap and tossed the lifesaver overboard with a growl, still determined to stage a mutiny. “This ends now, Waylon.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
Waylon lowered his shoulder like a linebacker and plowed into Melv.
Melv bobbed, sinking against the rail, and his hand caught the banister at just the wrong angle. In slow motion, his wrist snapped, fingers prying open from the force. Sunlight caught the teeth of a bronze key as it arced over—and then into—the water.
The splash was too small for something so consequential.
Melv recoiled, first in shock, then in anger. “How could you?”
Sizzling with unbridled wrath, he muscled past Waylon and knocked Fletcher out of his way. Instead of heading up, Melv speared down the staircase that must have led him toward the aft deck.
“Stay here. I’m going to finish this,” Waylon ordered.
“Don’t.” Fletcher stopped him with a firm hand against his forearm.
Years of hurt slashed through his features. Fists clenching and unclenching around the hilt of Jackie’s gun. “He deserves it. Or worse.”
“Listen to me.” Fletcher repositioned herself in his path. “He might, but you don’t.”