Chapter 7
Hot Coffee Break
FIONA
I leave Tre’s apartment around nine-thirty feeling… confused. If I didn’t already hate him, I might not hate him, and I’m not sure what to do about that. Generally, I try not to hate people solely on principle, but Tre is a special case. Now though…
Whatever. I have things to do. Things that don’t involve adjusting my worldview to one where he might actually be an okay guy.
Betty’s is closed—though there are a few people inside cleaning—so I can’t cut through the diner like I did earlier, and I have to walk around the building.
That lasagna was really good. And that coffee. I might marry that lasagna, but I would kill for that coffee. Damn.
Maybe if I… I think, trying to rationalize a reason that I could switch to getting my coffee from Betty’s instead of the gas station.
I sigh as I reach my truck and climb inside.
The only thing standing between me and a fantastic cup of coffee is me.
That is a bitter pill to swallow. I wish we never had dinner simply so that I could’ve remained blissfully unaware of what I was missing by refusing to patronize his restaurant.
I start my truck and begin the drive home, still trying to find a solution to my coffee dilemma.
My dad is on the couch watching some World War II documentary when I get back. What is it with men and World War II?
“Hey Fi. You’re home late.”
“Yeah, I had a… thing,” I say lamely.
“A date?” he asks, giving me a once-over.
“God, no! Just a… work thing.” Once again, I consider asking him if he’s dating since he never came home on Saturday night, but it’s really none of my business.
Instead, I sit in silence on the couch next to him and watch a couple of minutes of discussion about the Maginot Line.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been so bored in my life.
“So,” I interrupt, and my dad pauses the documentary.
“Hypothetically. If I wanted to bring down the condos Henley and Montank have been building at Hay Creek, how detailed would the information about the structure need to be to make that bomb?”
My dad laughs. Half a minute goes by before he realizes I’m not joking. “You’re serious,” he says finally.
I shrug.
“No. There’s no way. I would need blueprints.”
“What if I could get them?”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m working on it. But if I can get them. Could you do it?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that.”
“So you can’t?” I prod, going for his pride.
He rolls his eyes, dismissing my attempt at reverse psychology. “That’s a lot of explosives, Fiona. You think I just have those lying around?”
“I have no clue. But I assume you can make or get them if you don’t.”
“Get them,” my dad scoffs. “Yeah, let me run down to the farm supply store and load up on some fertilizer.” He presses play, resuming the documentary in an attempt to shut down the conversation.
I grab the remote from his hand and pause the documentary again. “You tell me what supplies you need, and I’ll get them.”
“You don’t have the connections, Fi.”
“Fine. I’ll give you the money, and you can get them.”
“Destroying the aerial gondolas wasn’t enough?”
“No. That was like giving Henley and Montank a black eye. It was a nice first strike. But no. I want to cut their legs off at the knees. I want them to decide the cost of being here isn’t worth it.”
“Mmm. Blueprints. And five thousand dollars. That’s what it’ll take.” He plucks the remote from my hand.
“Five thousand—” I begin, but the glare he gives me stops me from saying more. “Fine. Say I get you those. How long would it take?”
“A few weeks. And the charges will be extensive. They’ll require prep work to take the building down right.”
“What kind of prep work?”
“Notching I-beams. Sawing through metal.”
“You’re talking full-on contracted demolition work, dad. I’m talking quick and dirty and so damaged they have to do the actual demolition work.”
“You’ll still have to notch some beams. And the setup will still be extensive.”
“How extensive? In hours?” I tack on before he can give me some vague non-answer.
“Without a crew? At least eight hours. There’s probably not enough time to pull something like that off and make a clean getaway.”
“I’ll worry about that part,” I tell him as I stand. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got the money and the blueprints.”
As I head to my room, he grumbles something that sounds like, “Goddamned kids…” and I grin.
I’ll need to figure out how to talk to Tre before he comes to my office in order to give him time to get the blueprints, because that ball is definitely in his court.
The gas station coffee tastes even worse this morning.
How is it possible to make coffee taste this bad?
It’s like they’re putting used motor oil in it or something.
I should make my own. The problem is that I’ve never had to do it myself.
Between living in Seattle and working in hospitals, there was no need.
A good cup of coffee was never more than two blocks away.
As much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m a coffee snob.
If I do it myself, things will escalate quickly—they always do.
It’s one of the many downsides to being a perfectionist. I’d have to buy a coffee machine and filters and a grinder because if I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it right.
And if I’m going to buy a coffee machine, then why not just get an espresso machine?
Next thing you know, it’d be a five-thousand-dollar hobby.
And if I’m being honest, I’d rather spend five thousand dollars on bomb-making supplies than on coffee.
I choke down another sip and remind myself that hurling the practically full cup out the window of my truck while I peel out of the parking lot in a cloud of smoke would be wrong. I’m sure it would feel pretty great, though.
Against my better judgment, I find myself parked in the loading zone in front of Betty’s Diner.
I fish the crumpled receipt for the abysmal gas station coffee off the floor of my truck, smooth it out, and write ‘I need blueprints for the condo’ on the back.
I paid cash for the coffee, so the receipt doesn’t have my credit or debit card number on it, but it’ll have my fingerprints all over it.
‘Throw this away!’ I add on for good measure.
He should be smart enough to do that without being told, but it’s Tre, so who knows?
After last night, I have no idea what to make of him.
Years of experience tell me he’s an asshole and an idiot, but he didn’t seem like either last night.
Hopefully he’s working, I think as I get out and walk into the diner. Bells on the door jingle as I step inside. It’s a bit before eight in the morning, and I need to be in the office by eight-fifteen at the latest, so I don’t have much time to waste.
I stand in the entryway for a moment, surveying the space.
It’s been years since I’ve been in here, and it looks more or less exactly the way it did when Tre’s grandma owned it.
Obviously he’s replaced the vinyl on the booths and stools—since it doesn’t look worn—and repainted the place at least once, but the color scheme is still the same: cherry red vinyl, creamy white walls, and lots of chrome.
I finally spot Tre on the other side of the counter, toward the rear, near a griddle.
The air smells like sausage, syrup, and freshly brewed coffee, which gets stronger the further I move into the diner.
Currently, about half the seats are occupied by people eating breakfast and catching up on the latest town gossip, which—from what I can overhear in snatched bits of conversation—is entirely related to the vandalism at the construction site.
I wasn’t kidding when I told Tre that he’s going to be a suspect.
Hell. He’s going to be the suspect. I give it a few days at most before they drag him in for questioning.
He really is an idiot. And I’m a bigger one for even entertaining the possibility of working with him.
I stalk the rest of the way across the diner with the gas station coffee cup in one hand and the crumpled receipt in the other until I’m standing opposite the counter from him.
His back is toward me, and he hasn’t noticed me yet.
At least he’s wearing the sling today, though. “Dickie!” I say sharply.
He jumps and turns toward me, wide eyes quickly narrowing. “Carson?” he asks, and I hope he’s smart enough to play along and get the message.
“Do you have anything better than this swill?” I set the cup down and flatten both hands against the counter.
His grey eyes flick to the coffee cup. “Have you been drinking that shit since you got back?” He laughs.
I want to tell him not to laugh at me—I’m not sure why I suddenly care—but I don’t. I just glare at him harder. “Do you have anything better or not?” I bite out.
“Yes.” He throws the cup into the trash. Then he grabs a thermos, goes over to a utility sink, dumps it out, and awkwardly washes it with his one and a quarter arms before filling it with coffee. A moment later, he sets it on the counter.
“What’s this?” I eye the thermos suspiciously.
“Coffee.”
“Don’t you have regular cups?”
“No. They’re bad for the environment. And I need that back. Bring your own cup next time.”
I huff, feeling like I’m being lectured. “Whatever. Do you always leave crumpled receipts littering your counter?” I ask as I lift my hands and flick the message about the blueprints toward him.
He picks it up, smooths it out, and looks at it. “This isn’t…” He flips it over. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, then throws it into the trash.
“How much is the coffee?”
“Two-fifty.”
I pull three dollars from my pocket and toss the money on the counter before heading to my truck.
“Bring back my thermos!” Tre calls after me.
My only response is the bells over the door jingling as I leave. I take a sip. It’s so much better than the gas station coffee.