Page 30 of Safari Murder Party
She could survive this. She could make it through the week.
The med spa came up on her right. Exactly what she needed.
Fletcher slipped between the fogged glass doors into a tranquil lounge. Vases stuffed with pampas grass sat on polished glass end tables and woven rugs spread wide across the floor. Another door waited at the far end. She nudged through it.
Crisp lines of white tile fed toward procedural rooms with heaps of machinery—Hydrafacial machines, red-light therapy masks, a line of cryotherapy chambers. There, at the far end of the hall, stood yet another fogged door labeledMud Bath Sanctuary. Bingo.
Inside, she found three porcelain tubs, sparkling despite their intended use, and beyond them, a row of rainfall showers. She couldn’t get undressed fast enough. Twisting the silver faucet, the water ran hot enough to scald. Fletcher didn’t flinch when it burned.
She scrubbed her nail beds, desperate to remove the caked-on remnants of Theo’s veins. Strings of eucalyptus hung from the showerhead, but not even aromatherapy could unravel the knot in her stomach.
She squeezed an exorbitant amount of Oribe shampoo into her hands because she’d earned it. Today, she’d lather, rinse,andrepeat. If Dyer wanted to play his mind games, the least she could do was take advantage of his bougie shampoo.
The only way out of this mess was to get off the island and go home.
Except…
Fletcher tipped her head back with a frustrated sob. It wasn’t like she had much of a home to go back to. Her eviction date crept closer with every passing day. A rightful promotion was the only hope she had of staying in the city. She wasnotcrawling home to Kent with her dignity in shreds, even if it killed her. (And at this rate, it might.)
Where did that leave her? Casual homicide?
Dread raked down her spine as she watched Theo’s blood swirl down the drain. Streaks of burgundy paled until they disappeared entirely. She was left with soapsuds, fragrant and cleansing.
She wouldn’t kill, couldn’t kill. Not even if it meant inheriting more money than God.
A sniffling cry cut through the med spa, and Fletcher slammed the faucet off. Her pulse pounded, heart banging around her chest. Someone was here. And Fletcher was naked.
She swiped one of the cotton towels and draped it around her chest. Poking her head past the curtain, she saw no one hadwandered into the mud room yet, but a voice still chattered away—no, not a voice. Voices.
Hopping across the cold tile on wet feet, Fletcher aimed for the light switches. She doused herself in darkness and pressed a listening ear to the door. Muffled words got lost, drifting to the spa’s high ceilings.
Adrenaline buzzed in every corner of Fletcher. Ordinarily, she’d touted herself excellent at crisis response. Her usual crises involved wrinkled cummerbunds before black-tie affairs or missing memos ahead of stakeholder meetings. Not power-hungry coworkers cut off from society. Her nervous system could hardly keep up.
“I don’t know what Dyer expected to happen,” one of the voices said, and Fletcher finally placed it. Joplin strode closer, her words growing louder with each step. “Rick’s vendetta against Theo aside, it’s not like the rest of us are going to start shooting each other.” She’d been crying. Sniffling.
“Of course not,” Jackie responded coolly.
Fletcher sank deeper into the shadows as their silhouettes edged into view. Their shapes blurred through the glass, but there was no mistaking Joplin’s pink hair or Jackie’s red lips. Vaguely, Fletcher wondered if they could see her, shivering and swaddled in terry cloth.
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 wereclose.
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.
