“Look, Tate, this is me trucing. If you think I’m going to offer some apology, I’m not because I’m not sorry. People shouldn’t apologize if they don’t mean it. So take it or leave it.” Pulling her damp, freshly washed hair off her shoulders, she did look up at him then. “Or you can eat and leave. Like you said you would. Just make up your mind.”
Tate put the grocery bags down and went to stand before the desk. “I made up my mind. I’m staying, but I’m going to be as honest about it as you. I’m only staying because I have to find out what we are. I have to know if I caused that tornado and my parents’ death. When I figure this weird crap out I’m going to leave and do whatever I can to make sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else’s family, whether you want to stay here with your head stuck in the sand or not. Deal?”
Foster shrugged. “Sounds fair.”
“One more thing.”
Her sigh was long-suffering as she brushed curling scarlet hair from her face. “Yes?”
“Stop being so hateful. I know you hurt. So do I, but being mean to me—the only person who’s in this with you, is just stupid.”
“Are you calling me stupid?”
“If you keep being hateful, yes, I am. Because it’d be true. And I agree with you—I won’t apologize for saying that because I wouldn’t mean it.” Tate’s gaze locked with hers.
“What if what you consider being hateful is what I consider being honest?” she said.
“Well, as my mom would say, then you need to do better.”
“And what about you?”
Tate tilted his head to the side, considering. “I’ll try not to bait you, even though you’re damn easy to bait. I’ll also work as hard as you to figure out what’s going on. So, real truce?” He offered his hand to her.
Foster hesitated. Tate could see her mind working and had no clue if she was going to react like a rational person or a lunatic. So he waited, hand extended, practicing that kindness his mom would be proud of him for.
Finally, Foster stood and took his hand, shaking it with a firm grip. “Deal. Follow me.” She moved from behind the desk to the near side of the office and the wall of bookshelves there. “Here,” Foster pointed to one of the shelves.
“You found books. In an office.” He wondered, not for the first time, if Foster might be more than a little crazy. Like, seriously and literally in need of meds and counseling.
“No,” Foster’s lips pursed. “I found this.” She pressed the left edge of the middle bookshelf and stepped back as it swung open.
“Narnia,” Tate breathed.
“What? No. It’s not Narnia. It’s where Cora kept all of her … stuff.”
“No, Cora kept all of her stuff in the rest of the house where people’s stuff belongs.” He peered into what was obviously a well-built, expertly stocked safe room lined with metal file cabinets. “This is a Batcave. Why did Cora need a Batcave?”
“Gah, Tate, I’m trying not to be mean. Really, I am, but you make it difficult. Cora needed a Batcave because we’re in danger.” Foster walked back to the desk, motioning for Tate to follow her. She pointed at three soggy yellow legal pages filled with neat cursive writing that had bled blue ink all over. “And, sadly, being on this island isn’t enough to keep us safe.”
“What’s this letter?” Tate bent over the desk, trying to decipher the washed-out writing on the soaked pages.
“It’s from Cora.”
“What happened to it?”
“My fault.” Foster sighed and sounded truly miserable. “It was in her satchel. Before she died she told me to come here and that she’d written a letter explaining everything, but that I should wait until we got here to read it.” She shook her head, clearly pissed at herself. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve checked to be sure it was safe and dry. I found it in the outside pocket, totally soaked.”
“Hey, it’s okay. There’s a lot of it that we can read.” Tate squinted, reading between the soggy lines.
“Who’s Molly?” he asked.
Foster snorted, pulling his gaze to her. She was actually giggling a little!
“That’s a quote from Ghost. It was Cora’s favorite movie. She loved her some Whoopi Goldberg almost as much as she loved her some Patrick Swayze.”
Tate smiled. “Cora seems nice. And funny.”
Foster’s eyes went liquid. “She was,” she said softly, touching the damp paper gently.
Tate cleared his throat. “Okay, well, I can read most of these bulleted points.” He paused, scanning the page quickly. “Wow, the Batcave even has an escape hatch.”
“Cora was good at planning,” Foster said wistfully.
Tate met her gaze, thinking that her unshed tears made her green eyes shine like emeralds. “So is my mom.” He shook his head quickly and corrected himself. “So was my mom.”
“I know. It’s hard for me to believe Cora’s gone, too. I—I keep expecting her to come through the door and yell at me about how messy my hair is.”
“Mom would tell me mine needs to be trimmed. She was always on me about that,” Tate said.
“Moms always seem to focus on weird hair things,” Foster stated.
“We can definitely agree about that,” Tate said.
“It’s a start. Right?”
Tate thought Foster suddenly looked younger, like a little girl who was actually trying hard to be good. He forced the corners of his lips up and nodded. “Right.” Then he refocused on the soggy pages. “Tate Johnson? Did she really have new identity papers made up for me?”
Foster hurried into the Batcave and came out with a manila envelope, spilling the contents onto the desk. He picked up the Oregon driver’s license and stared at the picture beside the name, TATE JOHNSON, and some kind of phony address in a town called Ashland.
“She really did,” Foster said, flicking a finger at her own new license that said she was FOSTER FIELDS.
“Damn, you got my superhero alliteration,” Tate said. “And how the hell did Cora get my junior yearbook photo?”
“I told you. She was a genius at planning.” Then she added, “Superhero alliteration?”
“Yeah, I was Tate Taylor—like Clark Kent, Peter Parker, and Bruce Banner.”