FOSTER
The freeway stretched ahead, bordered by flat, dry, brown nothingness. All the middle states looked the same, and Foster couldn’t wait to finally be back on the West Coast. She took a swig from her almost empty water bottle, mentally kicking herself for not picking up a few Red Bulls at the Quickie Mart.
God, Cora picked a hell of a time to die, Foster decided, skipping over the in-between stages of grief and landing smack in the middle of anger. Not an hour before I successfully used my Jedi mind trick—twice! And not for evil either like practically every time I’ve ever tried to use it before. But, I mean, who could really call trying to get out of doing homework evil? Well, I mean, who besides Cora. Anyway, Foster shook her head, trying to hold on to her anger, that’s not the point. This time, I used it for good and Cora wasn’t even there to see it. And I don’t want to think about what would have happened if it didn’t work. Tate would have annoyed me to death and that bumpkin could’ve gotten us captured or killed. For the umpteenth time, she checked the rearview mirror. Murdered by Eve and her creepy minions. Just like Doctor Rick.
She squinted, flipping down the visor to block the sun as it continued its descent below the cloudless horizon.
Wait. No, not dead—missing. Cora said that Doctor Rick is alive. Hope clenched her heart, and then fled just as quickly. Doctor Rick was alive, but he was also … not trustworthy. Cora’s words uncurled a memory. He’s not the man we knew.
As impossible as that sounded, Foster believed in Cora with every fiber of her being.
If she said Doctor Rick was alive. He was.
If she said he’d turned into a bad guy. He had.
Foster believed Cora, but that didn’t make her heart hurt any less. She blinked hard, refusing to cry.
Okay, one thing at a time. First, I get us to Sauvie Island safely. Then I read Cora’s letter. Cora will have an explanation for this mess. Cora always had—
“Did you abduct me?”
Foster jerked in surprise, almost slamming the truck into the small sedan zooming by. “Uh, no.” Hiding her near collision, Foster flipped on the turn signal before drifting slowly, deliberately into the neighboring lane. “You fell asleep about two hours ago.”
“Two hours?” The tendons in Tate’s neck bulged as he scrambled to look out the front, side, and back windows, wincing as the cut in his leg opened and began to weep scarlet. “Ouch! Damn!” He pressed his hand over his thigh and spoke through pain-gritted teeth. “You’ve been driving for two hours?”
“Welcome to Nebraska,” Foster said with a flourish of her hand. “Not much better than Misery if you ask me.”
He ran a hand through his wavy, dark hair. “I can’t believe you let me sleep for two hours!”
Sighing softly, Foster tilted her head to the side. “And they were the most peaceful hours I’ve had since we met.”
“Stop the car.” Tate’s glare was almost palpable, filling the cab with thick cords of tension.
“Not until we need gas.” She tightened her grip on the wheel. “And it’s a truck, actually,” she added with forced nonchalance.
“Stop the truck.” His neck flamed the same cardinal red as the old pickup.
“Not until we need gas,” Foster enunciated.
“Fine.” Tate unlatched his seat belt.
“What are you doing?” Foster asked, ping-ponging her attention from the road to him and back again.
He popped the lock. “Getting out of the truck,” Tate stated as simply as if he was recounting what he’d had for lunch that day.
Foster let out a bark of laughter. “I’m going, like, seventy.”
“Then stop the truck,” Tate said with cool determination.
Foster’s brow furrowed. “You wouldn’t.”
With another disinterested shrug, Tate pushed open the door.
Tires screeched as Foster slammed on the brakes and careened onto the shoulder. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she spat, bolting out of the cab to meet him behind the back of the truck. “You almost got out of a moving vehicle. On the freeway! They would’ve been picking up pieces of you for days!” she shouted at him as he limped back in the direction they’d come, his thumb stuck out away from his body. “And now you’re, what? Hitchhiking? Oh, sure. That makes sense. It’s not like you look crazy or anything, all dirty and bleeding from the leg.”
Tate spun around so fast, Foster almost smacked into his chest. “I told you to stop the fucking truck!”
Thunder rumbled overhead, the sky around them darkening.
“And I told you that we need to get as far away from Bugtussle, Misery, as possible!” Rain dusted Foster’s arms and cooled the sticky hot air swirling between them.
“Why?” Tate threw his hands up. “Because some woman I don’t know said some shit I don’t understand?”
“It’s not a stretch to think that you don’t understand a lot of what people say.” A sudden gust threw bits of dirt and rock against her bare legs.
“I’m not stupid, Foster!” Tate shouted over a roar of thunder. “My life was fine before I met you. Perfect even.”
Foster couldn’t keep a wry burst of laughter from shooting from her lips. “Living in the dirty belly button of the U.S. was perfect? Your town had two stoplights! If that’s perfection, then you’re a hell of a lot dumber than I originally thought.”
“And you’re more of a bitch than I thought, and that takes some damn doing!”
Eyes wide, Foster sucked in a surprised breath. “It’s really easy to see why everyone calls you Douchehawk!” Plump raindrops splattered her shoulders, painting her new gray tee the same sooty shade as the gusting, churning sky above.