Chapter 27
Picnic Basket Case
FIONA
“No,” Carol murmurs from around the corner. It’s seven-fifty, and the office isn’t open yet. She’s either on the phone or she’s talking to Jean, since I saw Natalie restocking the cabinet in exam room three about thirty seconds ago.
There’s an indistinct response. Jean then.
“I’m certain Rich is insured, and Henley and Montank must have their own policy to replace whatever their people lost in the fire.
It’s all just stuff. But I feel so bad that man lost his cat.
It’s so sad. I’m sure whoever did it had no idea there was an animal inside the house,” Carol replies, continuing her side of the conversation.
“I heard they brought Tre in for questioning again yesterday afternoon.”
I stop in my tracks, just around the corner, still out of sight. Batman the cat is fine. He was sitting on my bed cleaning himself when I left this morning. Not that anyone else knows that. Well, anyone besides my dad and Tre.
This is the first I’m hearing about Tre being taken back in for questioning, though. I haven’t stopped by Betty’s yet this morning, and Ewan and my waiting room are the only other places I ever hear gossip.
“Not that he had anything to do with it, obviously,” Carol rushes to add.
“No, of course not,” Jean agrees. “They wouldn’t have let him go if he did. He’s such a nice boy. He never charges me for my coffee when I go in for breakfast.”
I step out from around the corner. “Is the first patient at eight-fifteen or eight-thirty?” I ask Carol, already knowing the answer—it’s always eight-thirty on Friday. I have enough time to run to Betty’s and pass a note to Tre as I pick up some coffee.
I was planning on that note being a meeting spot for tomorrow night, but if the investigation is focused back on Tre, I should cancel. That would be the smart thing to do.
“Eight-thirty,” Carol says.
“Great. I’m going to go grab a coffee. Do either of you want anything?”
Shadows are creeping across the landscape when I pull into the lot at White Rock Lake Park shortly before eight.
I seriously considered canceling on Tre yesterday.
I sat in the loading zone, staring into Betty’s, weighing my options for long enough that I ended up being a few minutes late to my first appointment.
But no one from the sheriff’s department or the ATF was inside, and instead of canceling, I passed him a note that said ‘White Rock Lake, 8 PM’ when I paid for my coffee.
The park worked well as a meeting spot a couple of weeks ago, and it’s far enough away from Kalomish that we’re unlikely to run into anyone we know.
Plus, this late in the evening, the traffic on the single-lane road that leads out here is sparse enough to make it easy to tell if you’re being followed.
Tre’s car is already sitting in the lot. Aside from mine, it’s the only vehicle, which is good, because being seen with Tre right now would be a mistake, and that’s the real reason we’re meeting here.
My dad made sure to tell me this morning that the sheriff talked to Tre again. My dad, who was apparently warning me off. My dad, who seems to have worked out that my entanglement with Tre is something more than… strictly business. My dad, who’s right, of course. About all of it.
But here I am anyway, hoping that they’re less focused on Tre than I think they are.
Hoping that they haven’t been able to make a judge think they have enough probable cause to get a court order allowing them to put a tracker on his car.
But if they had that, they’d have arrested him already, I think.
I take a deep breath, grab my bag off the seat beside me, and get out of my truck.
The echo of the door slamming shut behind me bounces across the lot as I move toward the trees in search of Tre.
The breeze is still carrying the heat of the day, and there’s a fire ban in effect.
All the parks are emptier than they would be if half the state weren’t bracing for wildfires.
I was lucky the bombs I planted in the executives’ houses at Highland Estates caused exactly the amount of damage they were supposed to, and no more. A fact my dad snapped at me more than once.
The pictures on the front of the local paper showed two burnt-out shells. The surrounding houses were untouched, and despite my dad’s reaction, I don’t think he could’ve done a better job.
I meander farther into the woods and find Tre on the same bench where I was waiting for him last time. He stands when he sees me.
“You brought a picnic basket,” I say when I’m close enough to make out the shape next to him.
“This time it is actually a date,” he replies smugly, his grey eyes fixed on me, and I can’t help but remember that night in the trailer. Something must show on my face because his smile grows a little broader and his eyes flick toward my chest, but, for once, I don’t say anything about it.
“Is it? Is that what we’re doing?” The question is, unfortunately, as much for me as it is for him, because I can’t figure out what I’m doing.
“Are you seeing anyone else?” Tre asks, seeming to already know the answer.
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
“No,” I admit, knowing it’s the crux of my problem.
“Me neither. So yeah, I think that’s what we’re doing.”
“And how is that going to work when we can’t be seen together?”
Tre shrugs, then picks up the picnic basket. He takes my hand and tugs me along the trail toward the lake. I fall into step beside him as he says, “Change your mind.”
“Change my mind?” I scoff.
“Sure. Us not being seen together is your rule. Not mine. So change your mind, and then it’s not a problem.”
“Uh huh. Because the sheriff wasn’t just talking to you, Tre. Again,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Because the ATF isn’t in town, looking at you as their prime suspect.”
I know I should leave. I know I never should’ve told Tre I’d spend the night after Highland Estates. And I shouldn’t have offered a rain check when it became clear I wouldn’t be able to. I should’ve listened to my dad. I shouldn’t have come here tonight.
“You’re right. He was. And just like last time, he has nothing, and I won’t tell him anything. Even if they were to arrest me tomorrow, I still wouldn’t tell them anything, Fiona,” he says seriously, and the soft buzzing of insects awakening for the night seems to underscore his words.
“You’re really going to sit in a jail cell when you didn’t even build the bombs?”
“If it comes to it, yeah. That’s my plan. The maximum sentence in Oregon for property damage that doesn’t result in bodily harm is five years.”
“You looked it up?”
“Yes. Before Hay Creek. I know you believe I don’t think things through, Fiona, but I do. Even if I don’t think them through the same way that you do.”
“Okay, fine. But that doesn’t mean it would be a single charge. And federal charges could be a max of twenty years,” I tell him.
“I know. I looked that up, too. After the ATF agent came into the diner the first time.”
“Or that the sentences would run concurrently if there were more than one.”
“Fiona, I know,” Tre says, his thumb running across the back of my hand. “Most likely they would, though. You know you’re considering the worst possible outcome as the default?”
“Yes, because preparing for the worst is the smart thing to do,” I assert.
“Okay, you’re not wrong, but it’s unlikely they’d get a conviction against me.”
“Why? Because you’re everybody’s best friend?”
“Yes. The same way that you’ve spent the better part of the past year making everyone believe you’re pro-development, I’ve spent most of my life being everyone’s friend, and no one wants Henley and Montank here.
Those two things combined would make it next to impossible for them to get a conviction. ”
“You’re…”
“Right? You can say it, you know,” he states lightly.
“Fine,” I grumble. “You’re right. No jury in Kalomish would convict you. But that won’t matter if they bring federal charges against you.”
“It wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t mention you,” he tells me, and I…
I believe him, I realize. It’s the same thing I said to my dad when he told me Tre would tell the cops it was me.
“I… I’ll think about it,” I say as the lake comes into view.
“Good. How’s the cat?”
I sigh. “Ewan wouldn’t take him. He’s still at my house.”
“Oh,” Tre murmurs, and it sounds like he’s trying to repress a laugh. “How’s that going?” He releases my hand and pulls a thin blanket from the side of the picnic basket, spreading it across the ground.
I can’t help but remember that woman kneeling in front of Eddie and sliding her mouth over him.
Or Eddie licking whipped cream off her face.
Or the chocolate syrup dripping from her boobs onto his body.
Or Tre saying, ‘You know, we could… If you wanted to.’ And the truth is, I really fucking want to. I wanted to even then.
I hope there’s whipped cream and chocolate syrup in that picnic basket.
“My dad isn’t thrilled,” I reply, which is only a bit of an understatement. I’m not sure if he was more surprised to see a cat on the kitchen counter when he woke up Wednesday morning or pissed to learn the reason Batman was in the house to begin with.
“What’d you tell him?”
“I… Are you asking if he knows?” I probe, setting my bag at my feet as I drop to sit beside Tre, my shoulder brushing against his.
Tre shrugs, and I’m suddenly replaying our conversation, trying to remember exactly what I’ve said since I arrived.
They questioned him again two days ago, I realize once more.
What if the sheriff told Tre that he knew two people were involved in the crimes?
What if Tre told them I was the other person?
What if they told him they’d cut him a deal if he got me to confess to it on a recording? What if—
“Fiona?” Tre says questioningly, and clearly I’ve missed something.
“Sorry, what?” I respond, still distracted as I remind myself that I decided I trusted Tre.
I decided that weeks ago. He already knows enough that no one would need him to get me to confess to anything.
He could simply take them to the storage unit.
They’d cut the lock and bring in bomb-sniffing dogs, which would immediately alert on the space.
Then they’d dust for prints and find mine and my dad’s.
Then they’d take swabs and do a chemical analysis, and the entire workbench—at the very least—would test positive for the same explosive residue they found at the sites.
Fuck. I thought I’d thought things through. I thought—
“Fiona?” Tre repeats, and my eyes focus on his, which look… concerned. “You wanna tell me what’s wrong?”
“I…” I’m frozen with indecision, caught between the desire to trust Tre—to tell him the truth—and sheer panic, left feeling like a rudderless ship being tossed around a wine-dark sea.
There’s no part of this situation that’s familiar to me. I don’t freeze. I wouldn’t have made it through a single day in the ICU if I did. Yet, here I am. Unable to get the words out. Unable to deny it. Unwilling to confirm it.
“Nothing,” I say after a moment, and my voice sounds strangled even to myself. “Nothing is wrong. I’m fine.”
“You looked more fine that morning at the campsite than you do right now,” Tre tells me, refusing to accept the lie.
“You…” I take a deep breath. “You know enough to send me to jail, Tre. And not only me.”
“That’s nothing— Ah. I see. I’m not going to, though.”
“I know,” I say, and I’m almost positive it’s true. “It’s just… he realized we were working together last month and things have been tense since then and he’s convinced that you’re the same as your dad and you’ll try to pin everything on me,” I blurt out.
“Okay. And he knows that we’re…?” Tre asks, his uncertainty about whatever we are finally showing through.
“He doesn’t know, but he assumes.”
“Well. This isn’t exactly how I was hoping tonight would go, but if it makes you feel any better, here’s what happened when they had me come in for questioning.
” Tre explains his conversation with the sheriff and the ATF, ending with, “Then I left. That was it. That was the extent of the interview. He doesn’t know anything.
Not about me. Not about you. Not about us. ”
I nod, looking out at the lake. The surface is rippling softly in the breeze, and frogs are chorusing closer to the shore, their croaks echoing across the water and bouncing off the stone.
“So. What’s the plan for the rest of the night?” Tre asks, giving me an out, evidently willing to let me continue to dance with the decision of whether we’re actually doing this, because it’s pretty clear what he wants.
It’s been clear for a while. And I picked this park for a reason.
I look up at the cerulean sky above us. “Do you know anyone with a house for rent?” I finally ask, giving voice to my next most pressing thought.
“What?”
“I need to move.” I interlace my hand with his and lean into him.
His skin is warm, and he smells faintly of citrus.
The scent is highlighted by the contrasting notes of cooling sunbaked granite and water that are suffusing the night air.
Being here with him feels companionable and right in a way I never could’ve predicted.
“I’ve been back for most of a year, and you were right.
I can’t keep living with my dad indefinitely,” I say, and there’s only the smallest hint of irony in my voice.
“I’ll ask around. You’re going to stay?” he verifies, and the hopefulness in his voice is impossible to miss.
“Yes. I’m going to stay. What’s in the picnic basket?”