Page 103 of Safari Murder Party
In the Drowning vs. Shark Attack debate, death by gunshot probably trumped them both. She only hoped Melv had the mercy to shoot her where it counted, rather than letting her bleed out.
It would have to be at least two shots. Her, then Waylon. Or Waylon, then her. Which was worse? To die, knowing she would be missed, or to have the last taste in her mouth be the bitter tang of grief?
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.
Athumpvibrated 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 gunandthe 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.
Theyhadto 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 youeverything,” 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. Thiswholetime, 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 hissuccessor—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 readTiffanyetched 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.
