Page 6 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘Well… you’re bluffing at least,’ Dad grumbles.

‘Bluffing isn’t cheating. It’s part of the game. But I’m not bluffing.’ Fraser runs a tattooed hand through his flop of hair, looking bored with family time already. I know he’s not actually bored; he just still has the face of a sullen teenager at times.

‘We can see that you’re bluffing,’ James says. ‘Your left eye twitches.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ James fidgets, and Coffin seizes the opportunity to swoop in and steal the ham from Fraser’s abandoned sandwich. For a one-eyed crow, he sure spots meat from across the room with ease. While we call him a pet, he chose us. Fitting right in with his penchant for eating eyeballs in a home that regularly cavorts with murder. ‘Oi, you little bugger. That’s mine.’

‘You weren’t eating it anyway,’ Priscilla says through a laugh.

‘Your twitchy eye has been giving you away since you were a tot. Remember the time he tried to blame Maggie for putting the neighbours’ goats in our school?’ I direct the question at my dad, whose eyes crinkle fondly.

‘Didn’t only eat the homework, but the textbooks too. I had to donate a whole new batch.’ Dad grins as Fraser’s cheeks pinken.

‘Don’t look at me,’ Priscilla says when Fraser seeks her support. ‘I can see your hand from here, and I promised your father honesty in my vows.’

Mrs Cairns bundles into the room in her usual manner, utterly consumed with things to do. It’s not that we keep her overly busy; she’s just a doer. She lives in a little cottage near the gatehouse, and on more than one day off, I’ve caught her sneaking in to do chores. So much so that Dad pays for her to go on a cruise twice a year with her husband to make sure she can’t pop in to make biscuits or nag a cleaner. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if she works on the ship to find a way for the staff to be more efficient. Anything is better than putting her feet up for more than five minutes at a time.

Plonking down a steaming pot of tea and another laden plate of biscuits, she smiles fondly at Fraser, who is undoubtedly her favourite.

‘You should start playing in sunglasses, Fraser.’ Mrs Cairns taps her left eye and winks at him, looking surprised when everyone but Fraser begins to laugh.

Smoothing back her grey bun, she tuts, though her face remains as warm and soft as ever. She’d never been able to have her own children, and while we are the killer brats of a killer family, she’s never loved us any less for it. She’s threatened us with retirement more times than I could count, whenever we left biscuit crumbs or muddy welly prints on the floor. Secretly, I think she’s hoping to stick around for some babies in the house.

Bagsy not me. Maggie can continue the line.

For the very distant future at least.

I sneak a glance at James and feel my cheeks heat at the thought of at least practising making babies with him. It’s not that I want him. Just that he riles me right up.

‘Fraser, love, you’ll want some tea.’ Mrs Cairns doesn’t ask. She simply provides, topping a cup up and sitting it in front of him.

‘Cheers, Mrs C,’ Fraser says, giving her a smile he so rarely favours us with. Twenty-one years old and acting like he doesn’t need our affection.

‘Anyone else?’ she asks.

‘Please,’ Priscilla says.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Dad says, tapping his whisky glass.

‘No, thank you,’ James and I say at the same time. His eyes flick to mine, and I narrow them at him. He raises a brow before grabbing the wine and topping his glass up.

Then mine.

Almost to the bloody brim.

Mrs Cairns shakes her head at us and heads for the door.

‘Is getting me tipsy the only way you can win?’ I ask, knowing it’ll rankle James.

‘No, it’s so you can’t stab me when you lose.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it. I could hit you right in the eye after a case of wine.’ Exaggeration? Probably. But James knows I’m a better throw than he is.

‘I’m raising,’ James says, pushing a stack of chips towards the middle of the table.

‘How much?’ I ask.

‘Everything.’