Page 108 of How to Kill Your Rival

My involvement is very much plan B.

Fraser stops moving about like a rat hunting for cheese and leans casually on the mantelpiece, looking every bit nonplussed as the killer families walk in. I’m surprised when the Stewart men walk in with the gall to look unbothered by their recent failed plan.

‘Fraser,’ Marcus Stewart says, nodding.

‘Pleasure to see you here,’ Fraser replies. The image of pleasant. You’d never know that they’d kidnapped him, or that we’d slaughtered some of the Stewarts’ men just a few days ago. They take their usual seats on one end of the table, while the Kavanaghs flank the other. I can’t help but send eye-daggers as Patrick passes me.

Every single one is armed to the absolute teeth. Guns. Knives. Knuckle dusters. They border on ridiculous. Not that I can talk. I’m packing too.

Everyone but Fraser, really. He’s in a shirt that drapes loosely around his frame, and dark jeans that are way too skinny to hide anything.

I wonder if a few more years will change his sense of style, or if his emo vibe is here to stay.

Assuming, of course, that we don’t all end this meeting riddled with bullet holes.

Two more families file in, considerably less armed, eyes wide as saucers as they walk into the icy atmosphere.

Nobody speaks. We all just shift uncomfortably around the table.

Then Mrs Cairns comes in with the trolley, jovial as ever, bustling between everyone with tea and chat.

The atmosphere breaks just enough for everyone to breathe a little easier.

She tops up teacups and hands out tiny jugs of milk, popping plates of biscuits in front of people. Different types. All homemade.

Mrs Cairns reaches me and puts a plate of chocolate chip cookies down. I eye the sugar-powder-covered dainty butter biscuits, but when I reach for them, she turns the trolley sharply away.

Rude.

She moves on.

Kowalczyks and Bellinghams tuck in while I knit my brow.

Then Evan arrives. Still frailer than before, but with purpose.

No one had been expecting him.

The Stewarts sit up straighter, and conversation bubbles around the table.

‘Evan,’ Marcus Stewart says, moving forward to shake his hand. ‘You’ve been sorely missed.’

Evan smiles, but there’s a vein throbbing on the side of his face that gives away his true feelings.

A pot at boiling point.

The arguing starts almost as soon as Marcus gets his arse back in his seat. His father, Hector, slams his hand on the table.

‘’Bout time you put that girl back where she belongs. Running around here like she owns the place. We agreed for her to step in temporarily.’

‘Evan can choose who takes his seat,’ says Kowalczyk, who is old enough and removed enough from the drama to say as he pleases. ‘It’s not like we have any laws against it.’

Chuckles kick up around the place. The idea of us all and laws in the same place is preposterous.

‘That girl,’ Hector says, ‘can’t even complete her damned contracts.’

‘Can’t blame her when someone’s running interference,’ Bellingham says.

‘Leadership is what we’re here to discuss. Evan’s recovery changes things. We don’t have to go for no confidence if you take your seat back.’