Page 110 of Ruthless Claim

Claire shifts a little uncomfortably, as if she’s not sure she wants to divulge this information. “Finn.”

“Finn.” I taste the name, turning it over in my mind. Finn. Finn Murphy. Finn…Brennan? “And he asks about his father.”

Her face softens briefly before it hardens back into its unflinching mask. “Yes,” she says quietly. “He does.”

I sit with that for a moment. I understand that feeling. I, too, wish I could ask more about my father, know more about him. He died when I was so young, I barely remember him.

I stand up abruptly, chair screeching on the floors. Claire doesn’t even flinch. “I’ll be in touch about the test,” I tell her. “Call me if you need anything.”

I go home.

Valentina is in the kitchen when I come in, standing at the counter eating crackers and reading something on her phone.

She’s in a deep green sweater that she wears when she’s not going anywhere.

She’s worn it so much that the right cuff is stretched out from where she pulls it over her palm when she’s cold.

Her hair is pulled back into a messy top knot, several strands framing her face.

I fight the urge to tuck them behind her ears. I can’t do that; not when Claire and Finn are running through my mind.

She looks up when I come in and her eyes do a quick pass over my face. “How was Connor’s?”

I went to Connor’s first specifically so I wouldn’t be lying when she asked. It was a fifteen-minute stop, long enough to get a coffee and exchange two sentences with Walsh about the Queens situation.

Long enough to make the alibi real.

“Fine,” I tell her. I cross to the fridge and get a bottle of water. “You eat anything today besides crackers?”

“I had vegetable soup,” Valentina says.

I raise an eyebrow at her as I unscrew the bottle and take a drink, watching as she pushes the last cracker away from her. “That’s not a lot of calories.”

“I’m fine, Cillian.”

I put the glass in the sink and look at the counter.

The crackers are there, along with a brand new box of almond milk.

All symbols of the small routines we’ve built. Then I think about the photograph face down on the table in a coffee shop in Queens.

“I have some calls to make,” I tell her.

She looks at me. Not saying anything, just studying me.

She’s been doing that a lot lately—like she’s taking notes in her head.

She’s been watching me very closely, trying to figure out what’s going on. I know she is.

I’m not giving her anything, and that probably makes it worse.

“Okay.” She goes back to her phone.

I go to my study and shut the door. I sit at my desk and stare at my hands.

All I can think about is the photo of the boy. The straight line of his mouth.

I’m going to figure this out. I’m going to get the test done, and then I’ll know what I’m dealing with. Then I’ll tell Valentina. There’s no point telling her now when I don’t know anything real. No point putting this on a pregnant woman when it might turn out to be⁠—