Page 56 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘Why the long face?’ he asks.

‘I’d guess genetics, so I’d turn the question back on you.’ I raise a brow, delighted when he laughs.

‘Such a clown.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say.

‘You’ve got the same face your mother made when something was bothering her.’

I look at the muted television.

‘Fraser says the Council’s been giving you gyp,’ he says.

‘Teething pains.’ I’m going to kick that butthead’s arse for bringing my issues to Dad. He’s supposed to be getting well.

‘Says they are acting like allowing you to fill my seat is doing you a favour.’

‘They feel like they are doing you a favour,’ I say. ‘And tolerating my presence in a chair my family has held for a hundred years until you get back.’

‘Aye,’ he says. ‘That’s about right. You’ll get through to them. It’s just slow. They are old dogs.’

‘Glacial,’ I say.

‘Robbed with that grey one,’ Dad says, unmuting the TV.

‘She came third, Dad.’

‘Robbed.’

I collect a bag of apples from the kitchen, the new, fresh, crunchy ones, because my piggy pals deserve the best.

The sun is warm as I follow the path around to their field, remembering Roman and me manhandling Eddie Stewart down this same route on the night of Dad’s wedding. Hopefully, Maggie’s nuptials will go without bloodshed. At least we’ll be near the pigs if there are.

Louie is at the gate when I arrive, snout going wild as he tries to grab the bag through the metal.

‘Behave yourself, you greedy beast.’

Hewie and Dewie come trundling over, determined not to miss out on the goodies.

‘I know,’ I say, pushing the first apple through. ‘They’re your fave, huh?’

Louie snatches it.

Hewie’s muddy snout nudges at the fence.

‘James thinks it’s Fraser. I thought he was supposed to be smart. First, we suspect the Kavanaghs are involved, and obviously the Stewarts given that you ate one of them, and now someone here?’

The pigs eat their apples.

I look around at the fields and the kitchen garden. The gentle slope that leads down to the loch with the hills rising behind. It’s so scenic. All the tourists who walk past on their walking holiday wouldn’t have a clue about the life choices of the inhabitants.

‘And worse, I’m getting feelings for James,’ I whisper to the pigs. ‘And not even the good kind in my pants.’

Feelings. Urgh.

Louie snuffles at the fence.

‘I don’t need your judgement,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not like we grew up together or anything.’