Page 95 of Safari Murder Party
Flicking her wrist up, Jackie read her watch. “You’re thirty-eight minutes late. When I assign deadlines to my staff, I expect them to be met.”
The harsh curve of Waylon’s mouth wrinkled in her periphery. “Fletcher, what—”
Jackie turned, as if only now noticing Waylon’s presence. Which was statistically improbable given both his formidable height and the tsunami waves of hurt and confusion radiating off him. She grinned, flashing the vicious incisors of her too-white veneers. “I thought I told you to get rid of him.”
The contents of Fletcher’s stomach curdled. She pressed herself in front of Waylon, hardly a shield, given he neared twice her size. “And I thought I told you I’d meet you when I had…it.”
“Had what?” asked Waylon.
The editor in chief giggled behind her hand like a schoolyard mean girl.
Sterner: “Had what, Fletcher?”
“A key to your dad’s boat,” Jackie answered when Fletcher couldn’t. “So we can get out of here, and you can wait for whatever half-rate rescue crew is coming in a few days to ship you back home. If you live long enough.”
Could you be strangled by your own guilt? Fletcher was about to find out.
Waylon closed the space between them, and no matter how outraged he was, Fletcher didn’t flinch. Somewhere, deep down, some part of her knew Waylon Cartwright enough to know he wouldn’t lay a hand on her she didn’t ask for. “What is she talking about?”
“I told Jackie I’d help her get off the island, but I didn’t know about…” Fletcher trailed off, lest she give Jackie an even better reason to maroon them. “If I helped her, she’d make me a photographer.”
He’d understand. Hehadto. It was the one thing Fletcher wanted most in the world.
Instead, the muscles of Waylon’s jaw twitched. “I thought we were a team.”
“We were.” The vulnerability stung. “Weare.”
But it wasn’t enough.Wedidn’t exist anymore.Wewas ancient history because she’d betrayed Waylon.
Waylon winced and recovered with a steely stare. “Was any of it real?”
Fletcher swallowed. He’d seen every part of her—every rough edge, every soft curve, every daydream, every nightmare. If what they had wasn’t real, nothing ever would be.
“Yes,” she admitted. Each word burred against her throat, snagging on its way out. “For me, it was.”
There was a fraction of a second where a carousel of emotions flashed across Waylon’s face—surprise, relief, hope—but it was gone as soon as it came. Tucked neatly beneath that hardened shell he always wore so well. Fletcher hadn’t realized how nice it had been to see the real him until it was gone. It was worse to have to guess what was going on inside his head.
His breath was hot on her face when he said, “I would have saved you.”
“I was trying to save myself.” Fletcher swallowed hard, staring up at him. She wouldn’t apologize for it.
He didn’t ask her to. Just nodded and swiped a hand over his face. “And how’d that work out for you?”
Fletcher’s gaze cut hard back to Jackie. When she answered, her voice was two steps lower, hushed but no less urgent. “She put a gun to my head. What did you want me to do?”
“I wanted you to tell me the truth, Fletcher.” Waylon shook his head in disbelief. The distance between them reduced to inches but stretching miles. “But you couldn’t do that because you were biding your time with me to get what you wanted, exactly like everyone else.”
“I wasn’t,” Fletcher said, reaching toward him, but he shrugged her off. Slipped through her fingers.
“Oh, my mistake. I thought that was what it was called when you lie to someone, lead them on, and then turn around and stab them in the back. Is it not?” There was no answer except the truth. A truth Fletcher couldn’t bring herself to say. He already knew, anyway.
The vein in Fletcher’s forehead pulsed with a vengeance. “If anyone taught me to be selfish, it was you. You’re exactly the Cartwright you never wanted to be.”
“You used me.” Something split wide open on Waylon’s face. Hurt, raw as an open wound. “You’re exactly like Eliza. Like all of them.” His head tipped back, blue eyes skimming the sky. “What are you waiting for, honestly? Finish me off yourself.”
Before Fletcher could say anything, a driving iron slammed over Waylon’s head. He folded in on himself as bright red bloomed from a gash on his forehead.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Jackie on the follow-through. She propped an elbow up on the edge of her club.
