Tate’s jaw flexed and his eyes narrowed. “Okay,” he took a deep breath and combed his fingers through one of his many sleep-caused cowlicks. “You want s’mores for breakfast?”
Foster frowned. She expected a fight. She needed a fight. Arguing was a hell of a lot easier to deal with than whatever was happening now. “No, I just…” She gnawed on her bottom lip, pressing back the memories of Cora and their late-night s’more-making, people-watching, dog-counting sessions around their rooftop fire pit. And how Cora thought graham crackers tasted like old cardboard if they weren’t coated in dark chocolate and marshmallows.
“Even though they’re sort of my favorite, I won’t eat naked graham crackers again. I’ll wait for s’mores,” Tate continued. “But Foster, you have to eat something. Take a second. Then I promise we can come back and I’ll keep helping you figure this out. My dad always said that you have to feed your body to feed your brain.” Tate’s eyes misted, and he shifted his gaze from her to the window. He quickly wiped his eyes and cleared his throat, saying, “Plus, it’s sunny outside, and doesn’t that, like, never happen here?”
Foster opened her mouth to object, but paused as her stomach released a low rumble. Maybe he had a point, although she would never let him know that he was right. “People think it rains here twenty-four/seven, and we let them think that so they’re less likely to move here, but that’s really more of a Seattle thing.”
“Guess I have a lot to learn about the Northwest.”
“Pacific Northwest,” Foster corrected.
“You’re proving my point. So, are you going to be my everything Pacific Northwest teacher?” Mischief rested in his smile.
Three swift knocks echoed from the front door down the hallway, saving Foster from answering.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“No,” Foster swiped the letter opener off the desk and silently tiptoed toward the front door.
Tate shuffled down the hallway behind her. “What are you planning to do with that?”
“Do you not remember those guys from yesterday? The ones who chased us?” Foster said in harsh, clipped whispers.
“You think it’s them? Would they knock?”
“Jesus, Tate, I don’t know. I’m not some deranged psycho killer.” His brow wrinkled as she sliced the letter opener through the air with each gesture. “Just stay behind me.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why? Because you’re a guy and I’m a girl?”
“Well, yes. But no. But … I don’t know, kind of. Hey, get your Jedi mind trick ready, just in case.”
“And you get ready to tackle someone in case it doesn’t work.”
“I got your back, young Padawan.”
Three knocks came again. Foster halted mid–eye roll, tightening her grip on the hilt of the dull blade.
“Hello? Ms. Cora? It’s me, Finn.”
Finn? Foster mouthed over her shoulder to Tate.
“Be right there!” Tate called.
With her free hand, Foster hit Tate’s shoulder as he passed her on his way to the front door. “What are you doing?”
“Being hospitable. Try to unclench.”
“Unclench?” Unclench?
Had he actually told her to try and unclench? Like he hadn’t seen firsthand why she needed to stay a little bit clenched. They both needed to if they wanted to remain free long enough to figure out everything Cora had left for them. And anyone else who was part of their group of freaks would have to stay clenched, too.
Foster nodded stiffly to herself, gripped the letter opener tightly behind her back, and stomped after Tate for the second time in as many days.
“I swear to God, Tate, if it’s any of the Core Four, I’m pushing you out the door and locking it behind you,” she snapped as Tate unlocked the deadbolt and twisted the handle.
“Hey!”
Foster lifted onto her tiptoes and peered over Tate’s shoulder at the owner of the cheery, unfamiliar voice.
“There you are!” He angled his crooked smile at Foster. “I’d recognize you anywhere. Man, she said it was strawberry red, and she was not lying. The pictures don’t do it justice, though.”
“What?” Foster asked, nudging Tate over as she claimed a space next to him in the doorway.
“Your hair. It’s really red. Strawberry red. Just how Ms. Cora said it was. Where is she anyway?”
“Wait,” Foster slid the letter opener into the back pocket of her sweats before crossing her arms over her chest. “Who are you?”
“Finn,” Tate answered.
“My man!”
Tate and Finn leaned forward simultaneously, each extending their right hand to slap, grip, and then shake before effortlessly half-hugging.
“No, no, no. You can’t just ‘my man’ someone and instantly become best friends. You don’t even know his name,” Foster said, pointing at Tate.
“Sounds like you don’t understand the power of a good ‘my man,’” Finn punctuated with a wink.
“It’s Tate, by the way,” Tate added, looking truly relaxed for the first time since the storm.
Foster huffed, “What are you doing here, Finn?”
“I work here.” Finn hooked his thumbs around the front belt loops of his grass-stained jeans. “Just came by to let out my girls and check on the fields when I saw the truck in the driveway. Figured you and Ms. Cora were finally ready to settle in. Thought I’d come down and welcome you back.”
“You work here? For how long? Did Cora hire you?” Foster fired off the questions, her tone more demanding with each one.
“Hey, take it easy. You’re going to give yourself a stroke.” Tate stepped between them, mouthing unclench as he signaled for a time-out. “How about this, Finn, you hungry?”
Finn’s softly angled eyebrows shot up at the mention of food. “I can always eat.”
Foster blew out a short puff of air as Tate and Finn once again did that slapping, gripping, shaking hands hug thing.
“Foster and I were just about to make breakfast. Come have some food. Then at least you’ll get something out of being interrogated.”