The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(31)

“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.”

“I never turn down a free meal.”

Foster readied herself to ground out a witty insult when Tate caught her eye. He had that little-kid “please, please, please will you let Finn come over and play” look in his big blue, puppy dog–sweet eyes. Foster sighed. She might not need friends, actually, the thought of having to go make any made her skin feel all hivey, but Tate wasn’t cut from the same icy blue loner cloth she was. If anything, he was from the pastel-colored, squishy baby elephant print variety.