Page 27 of How to Kill Your Rival

I shrug. ‘I have friends…’

‘They are supposed to be fucking impenetrable. It’s why we pay so much for the systems every year.’ Eliza’s voice scrapes.

‘Nothing’s impenetrable.’

Her gaze slides to my face for a moment, and I know my double meaning hits.

‘Is that a sex joke?’ she asks.

Okay. Maybe my double meaning had a third meaning.

‘I wasn’t talking about fucking…’

‘Likely story.’

‘Will you approach the Council when we get confirmation about Kavanagh?’ I ask.

‘As if they’d believe me. I need proof. They’d more than likely put it down to feminine ineptitude or hysteria.’

‘I can help.’

‘You don’t have to,’ she says. ‘I can handle⁠—’

‘I know you can handle it,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t mean you always have to do it alone.’

Silence.

We’re quiet for a time as she drives, and I eat.

‘You don’t always have to be so tough,’ I say.

‘I don’t want to end up like my mum.’ Eliza grips the wheel as she speaks. It feels like a tiny win, and she never opens up about anything. The closest I’ve had to something vulnerable from her.

‘My mother died on a job when I was thirteen,’ she says after some time. ‘A little before we first met. I don’t know if Priscilla ever told you.’

I look at her. ‘She didn’t.’

‘My dad hates when anyone talks about it.’ She grips the wheel and keeps her eyes on the road. ‘She was too confident and got distracted. Misjudged a mark and took a knife through her lung. She’d had bad information fed to her and believed it rather than her own instincts. It cost her her life.’

‘Eliza,’ I say.

‘You asked before why I don’t trust anyone. That’s why. Trust leads to mistakes. My family are the only people I can trust.’

‘We’re not all bad,’ I say.

‘The more in your inner circle, the more chance there is that someone will betray you.’

The road opens up a little, and she accelerates.

‘I will never betray you. I’ve loved you since the day I first saw you.’

If she notes my admission, there’s no sign of it. My chest aches.

‘I’ve strived my whole life to live up to her,’ she whispers. Like it’s painful to admit. ‘Mum. She was better at all of it. She had friends. Real ones. Dad adored her. They had such an easy love between them. I used to think that I’d be just like her, and I’ve tried so hard. But Maggie got her sweetness. Fraser got her cleverness. And me? Her ability with a knife. It suits me well enough for work, but I feel inadequate in all other ways.’

‘You tar yourself with a brush that you don’t have to hold,’ I say.

‘But you understand, right?’