Page 79 of Safari Murder Party
Aaaaand, still no key.
“You check the bookcases, and I’ll look in the armoire,” Waylon said, leaving no time for sympathies.
Fletcher tugged down book after book, each coughing up dust. None of them even had holes cut out in the middle to hide things in.Damn it.
They’d exhausted all the office hiding spots, but they hadn’t scoured the bedroom or the rest of the building. Rick could wander in at any moment, and then they’d be at the mercy of his hillbilly harpoon. But…what if the master key wasn’t here at all? What would have stopped Carlotta from taking her keys with her when she fled the island?
Pacing, Fletcher kneaded the puzzle in her head. Carlotta wouldn’t have taken it—it wasn’therkey; it was Dyer’s, and Dyer knew he was bequeathing the island to Waylon. He’d have instructed her to keep it here, keep it safe. Somewhere only he could find it.
Something scratched at the back of her mind, like a splinter working itself to the top of the skin. Fletcher’s gaze wandered toward the middle of the room. Toward the bump in the floorboards.
“He wouldn’t…” she whispered, but Dyer would.
Bending to the floor, Fletcher dug her fingers in, shifting her weight to pry up the board, but it didn’t budge. A breath out. A breath in. She tried again with aching knuckles. The floor was definitely fighting back.
With arms around her waist, Waylon heaved Fletcher out of the way. Slamming his bandaged hand into the board, the nails shifted loose, and he peeled it up with two fingers.
“I loosened it,” Fletcher huffed, shaking out her fingers. “And tell your eyebrows to shut up.”
“Whatever you say, honey.”
Reaching past the floorboards, Fletcher’s hands brushed a small cold metal box. No, a safe the size of a jewelry box. Thishadto be it. Her fingers flew over the padlock, spinning numbered wheels into combinations that would have meant something to Dyer. The last four of his phone number. The date of the firstJet-Setterissue. Waylon’s birthday. Nothing.
Waylon slipped the safe out of her hands. “Let me try.”
He worked through the numbers, waiting for something to catch. A film of worry layered her gut. They needed to get out of this place before Rick swept inside to host a Sales scrum.
Suddenly, Fletcher couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t just anxiety. A thin, plastic stripe wrapped around her throat—tighter, tighter. Her last breath had been thick with the woodsy notes of Baccarat Rouge.
Opal Meena wasstrangling her. And a few feet away, Waylon worked through the safe’s combinations with his back turned to her. She couldn’t even call for help. Because of the aforementioned strangling.
A haughty little laugh met the curve of her ear. Opal didn’t speak and risk blowing her cover, but Fletcher suspected the laugh was code for,Gotcha, bitch! Told you the jig was up.
As black wormed into the corners of Fletcher’s vision, she wiggled her fingers toward the desk. If she could just reach alittlefarther…
In one quick movement, she slid open the top drawer and snagged the pair of scissors. And—squelch. The blades pierced Opal’s thigh, metal against muscle. Opal staggered, a string of incoherent insults ripping out of her.
Air—beautiful, breathable air—sucked deep into Fletcher’s chest. Could your trachea get bruised? Hers certainly was. Everybreath was knives, cutting down her throat. She would never take her lungs for granted again.
“This thing is imposs—” Waylon spun, eyes wide. They grew wider at the shears protruding from Opal’s quad. Blood gushed down her leg, seeping into the leather straps of her sandals. “What’d I miss?”
“Doesn’t matter. Bring the whole box. We’ve got to go,” Fletcher rasped. Grabbing his arm, she tugged him toward the landing.
Opal bobbed after them on uneven legs, slow down the stairs but angry as hell. Fletcher’s feet had almost hit the first-floor landing when a pair of evenly tanned legs wrapped around her middle. Opal had catapulted onto Fletcher’s back—hands dug into her hair, nails into her scalp.
Oh no.The ground rushed up to meet them. Pain seared through Fletcher’s shoulder as it slammed onto the hardwoods in the foyer.
So much for being sneaky.
“Get off of me,” Fletcher gritted through her teeth. Everywhere stung. Opal clawed perfect acrylic nails into Fletcher’s skin, merciless.
In an instant, Waylon gripped Opal’s shoulders, trying to tear her off, but Opal must have jabbed an elbow hard against his diaphragm because he jolted back with a gasp. Or something. The details were fuzzy from Fletcher’s perspective, face planted into the ground.
Something boomed outside, interrupting them. As the door slammed open, Fletcher expected Rick, a shotgun blast to the forehead, and a swift end to her suffering.
“Naya!” Waylon greeted, hoarse but relieved.
