Page 32 of Safari Murder Party
In response, the designer’s frigid body slumped against the glass, hands frozen to the door handle but unable to open it.
“Joplin? Joplin. Can you hear me?”
“Tell Waylon, I never liked Eliza. Tell him—” Joplin slurred, but Fletcher never found out what came next.
She recognized Joplin’s absence the moment it came, the flame inside snuffing out in the cold, her eyes glazed and emptied.
And that made two.
Jackie killed Joplin.
Jackie, the editor in chief.
Or maybe she could be promoted to CMO. If CMO actually stood for Chief Murder Officer.
Which made two of Fletcher’s current remaining colleagues known killers. The ratio of trustworthy people at Cartwright Media evaporated like water in the Sahara. The shock left Fletcher hollow.
She couldn’t blink away Joplin’s lifeless stare. No matter how many times she squeezed her eyes shut and pried them back open, she saw Joplin, frost-slicked and angry.
Fletcher had left her there. All things considered, Joplin would be preserved just fine. Maybe science would advance far enough they could thaw her out a hundred years from now, good as new. If Fletcher won the inheritance, she’d fund the initiative herself.
With Joplin gone, Fletcher’s mission had only solidified. The sooner she got off this island, the better.
A deadly game had begun, and Fletcher refused to be responsible for taking someone’s life. She’d never be able to live with the guilt. The blood on her hands would eat her away like hungry rust.
Ford’s voice rang through her head:You’re always one step ahead.There had to be another way off this island. Something that wouldn’t require her to sit around waiting to be murdered for 120 hours until a rescue crew came.
Of course, it would be easier to escape if she weren’t wearing this robe. She’d swiped one of the spa’s mulberry silk robes after pointedly deciding to leave her clothes heaped on the med spa floor,stained as they were. Fresh, clean clothes, and she’d feel…well, not like a million bucks, but at least like her five-figure salary.
As she neared the yawning accordion doors to the patio, shouting halted Fletcher in her tracks.
“So, that’s that? You’re as bad as him,” Raul was saying. Fury painted his face in shades of red.
Fletcher tiptoed toward the door and craned her neck around the edge, but she couldn’t see who Raul was yelling at. Jackie, if she had to guess.
The other half of the conversation must have responded unkindly because Raul faltered backward, barely halting at the lip of the pool. “Don’t do this,” he begged. It wasn’t a good look for him.
Meanwhile, Sheila stretched across one of the chaises, a silver reflector perched beneath her chin. Sunglasses had been tugged down over her eyes, and earbuds poked in her ears. Noise-canceling, presumably. Her head bobbed to an unheard beat.
The intern didn’t notice the spit flying out of Raul’s mouth. Didn’t hear the crack of a pistol. Didn’t smell the smoke or feel the splash of pool water lapping beneath her lounge chair as Raul rocked onto his heels, sinking into the deep end.
Fletcher bit into her cheek to keep from screaming.
The chlorinated water swirled red. Raul floated limply, linen suit jacket splaying around him as pool jets whirlpooled the CTO clockwise. Up Fletcher’s throat climbed the sour taste of bile—her empty stomach didn’t have much else to give.
She sagged against the doorframe. Three. Three of her colleagues dead in as many hours since she discovered Dyer was the lion lunch du jour. At this rate, Fletcher could forget about surviving the week. She’d be lucky to survive the day.
Beneath her, Fletcher’s feet dragged her toward the staircase. Tooslowly. As she passed the next breezeway, someone cornered her. Cold metal pressed to the nape of Fletcher’s neck.
“Here’s the thing, Fletcher.” She recognized Jackie’s voice immediately, and it was like slurping a Szechuan’s lo mein noodle down the wrong pipe. “I don’t need you trying to undo my handiwork. Joplin was taken care of.”
Words came much more easily when the barrel of one of Dyer’s death machines wasn’t rammed up against her spinal cord, and Fletcher barely managed to mumble a stream of gibberish.
Jackie leaned in, spearmint breath hot against Fletcher’s ear. “You can’t tell me you really wanted Joplin to inherit the company. Not after everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve done for Dyer all these years.”
“Joplin was an amazing designer,” Fletcher said, remarkably eloquent, given the circumstances.
The barrel nudged closer, metal growing warm. “But?”
