Page 27 of The Dysasters

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—theonlyperson 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. “Thisis 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 Batcavebecause we’re in danger.” Foster walked back tothe 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 fromGhost. 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.