Page 91 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘Is this a thing people want?’

Eliza shrugs, but her cheeks flush pink. Noted.

I take my torch to the nearest pallet and pull back the cardboard flap on a box. The beam illuminates more rubber playthings.

‘How many boxes per pallet?’ I ask.

‘There must be thousands of cocks in here.’

‘I know my brother can be a cock,’ Eliza says, ‘but he’s not among these.’

A laugh breaks from me like a bark, and within seconds, we’re both in fits. It’s half-delirium, but it breaks through something in me that needed to be freed.

By the time we reach the door, we’re both wiping tears from our cheeks. Eliza gives a stuttered sob, and I pull her to face me, trapping her chin in my fingers.

‘Listen to me, Eliza Hamilton: we will get him back. Don’t give these cunts one more ounce of your tears. They don’t deserve them. Find that killer bitch that I’ve loved for years and set her free. Light a fucking fire under her arse. We need her.’

‘I’m going to kill every single one of them.’

I wipe the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs before kissing her. Losing myself in her for a few tender moments, our tongues sliding in terse heat.

By the time we reach the car, Eliza has pulled up the next address.

‘East End next.’

‘Let’s go,’ I say.

Eleven warehouses.

Six days.

Fuck.

29

ELIZA

Warehouse two is a gutted shell, everything stripped, including the wiring. Three is even worse. It’s more pigeon shit than building. The roof sags, and the floor is more rotted than wood. We sweep them both anyway, and by the time we’re through, it’s the wee hours of the morning. Adrenaline gives way to despair. Only five days left, and we’re no closer to finding Fraser. Maggie’s trying her best to manage things from the end of the phone and make excuses for where we all went to Dad. I don’t envy her.

Silence permeates the drive until I notice James isn’t heading for Edinburgh like we should be. ‘You’ve taken the wrong road.’

James doesn’t answer, his fingers gripping the wheel harder.

‘James.’

He pulls off the slip road at the services and stops in the Travelodge car park.

‘It’s only 3 a.m.,’ I protest. ‘We could be in Edinburgh by five⁠—’

James gets out of the car, closing the door with a thud. I very much consider murdering him.

I tear out of my seat and go around to his side of the car, but he’s already grabbed our bags and headed for reception.

He has the car keys.

I bite my tongue while he checks in, not wanting to make a scene. I traipse behind him to the room that smells of carpet cleaner and smoke-stained curtains, which clearly haven’t been changed in decades.

‘You didn’t listen to me. You can’t just railroad me into bedtimes when you deem them fit.’