Page 88 of How to Kill Your Rival

When the shampoo is out, James unloads the tiny bottle of conditioner into his palm and works it into the ends of my hair. ‘Your hair deserves better than this shit.’

‘Fraser was always nicking my expensive shampoo and conditioner when we were younger. He had a tiny mop of hair, but he always used so bloody much.’

‘It might not have been his hair he was so thoroughly washing,’ James says.

The noise that comes out of me is part laugh and a lot sob. ‘James. What the fuck. I don’t need to picture that!’

‘I, too, was a conditioner-stealing wanker.’

The tears come then, mingling with the water drops that splash as he washes the conditioner out. I don’t know how I’ll go on if I can’t get Fraser back. The Hamiltons’ baby. Our brooding little fucker.

James is so gentle with me. The man who I’ve seen end so many lives touches me like I’m made of glass.

My chest aches. Too many emotions. Too much conflict.

When he’s done, he holds a towel open, and I step into it without argument. He wraps it around me and scoops me into his arms, not giving me any chance to object.

Depositing me gently on the soft bed, he goes back into the bathroom. I listen for a while as he showers and then cleans away any remaining blood in the bath, scrubbing it. A few minutes later, he returns with a plastic-packaged comb.

‘I have a feeling this comb isn’t quite up to the task, but it’s all we have,’ James says, the bed dipping as he sits behind me.

I hadn’t even thought of packing, well, anything much. Some spare clothes. A charger. That’s it.

‘I don’t have a toothbrush,’ I say.

‘I’ll get one from reception. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.’

There it is again. He’s got me.

The comb snags as he works through my hair, but he patiently untangles the knot with his fingers before moving on. It takes a long time. I close myself and let myself just be there. To focus on the sound of the comb working through my hair, and the feel of his fingers against my neck and back.

It’s been a very long time since anyone has brushed my hair. Maggie used to do it when I was little, sitting me on the floor in front of the couch as she played hairdresser. Far less gently.

But James doesn’t rush. He treats my hair like a reverent ritual and before long, my eyes are drooping.

When he finishes, he sets the comb on the nightstand and pulls me onto the bed beside him, wrapping me up in his arms. After a kill, I’m usually ready to jump his bones and then leave him in the dust.

But all I want today is this.

His grey eyes watch my face while his fingers trace my spine. I feel the steady thrum of his heart under my palm and find myself lost in the rhythm of it.

‘Four hours,’ I whisper.

‘Four hours,’ he agrees.

And as much as I want to spring into action, I can’t. He’s right; we need to be ready. Come morning, blood will paint the Central Belt red.

28

JAMES

The first warehouse appears unused and decrepit from the outside. Corrugated iron roller doors patched with rust. Weeds as high as my waist tangle between the fence and the side door. A chain-link fence with a padlock the size of my fist. There are no lights. I can’t see any movement through the strip of grimy windows.

None of that means that Fraser isn’t strapped to a seat somewhere inside.

On a closer look, though, there are signs of recent use. The padlock holding the gate closed is new, shining in the low morning light. There is a path trodden through the weeds from the gate to the side door, and a large patch cleared near the roller doors.

I take Eliza’s hand in mine, looking over at her.