20. Cillian #3
“She says he’s bright, which I knew, obviously, but she’s concerned about the resources at his current school.
The reading program is underfunded and he’s ahead of his class already and just—” She shakes her head, pressing her lips together.
“The schools in our district, Cillian. I looked into transferring him, but the waitlists for the better programs are brutal and the private options are just—” A small helpless gesture.
“I’ve been picking up extra shifts but it’s never quite enough. ”
I nod, only half-listening, then I perk up. Wait, schools in our district? That sounds like Finn is in school in New York. I thought they still lived in Ireland and were just here to find me. Have I ever confirmed where they have been?
Something else is niggling in my brain.
Something Valentina had said when we argued last. I don’t give a fuck that you spent eight weeks together.
Eight weeks? I thought I had only been in Belfast for six? I try to think back. God, that was a long time ago and I had done such ugly, brutal things that I tried to drink myself into oblivion most nights.
I’d hooked up with a few women. I definitely remember Claire. We slept together a few times.
But eight weeks? Had we really been together for eight weeks like she had told Valentina?
I think back hard, trying to remember the timeline.
If I remember correctly, I arrived in Belfast in late June, right after Emma’s birthday, and I thought I came back in early August, just in time for Connor’s birthday dinner on the fourteenth.
Eight weeks.
I turn that over in my mind while Claire tells me about the school reading program.
I wait until she pauses for breath before I say casually, “Can I ask you something? About Belfast.”
She blinks at the subject change but recovers smoothly. “Of course.”
“I’ve been trying to piece it together. For Finn’s sake—if he ever asks about how we met, I want to have the story straight.” I fiddle with a napkin. “I honestly can’t remember exactly how long we were actually—how long we actually spent together. That whole stretch is a blur for me.”
That sounds lame as fuck, but to my surprise Claire’s face softens. “It was eight weeks,” she says. “Almost exactly.”
“Right.” I nod slowly, like that’s jogging something loose. “Eight weeks.”
“Mid-June through mid-August.” She smiles a little. “I remember it better than you do, clearly.”
“Clearly,” I agree, my mind running at a million miles per hour.
That’s…that’s wrong. I hadn’t been in Belfast for eight weeks. I’d arrived later than that and left earlier.
The timeline doesn’t work.
“Cillian?” Claire looks at me expectantly. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry.” I’m not sorry at all. “What was that?”
“I was saying that Finn’s birthday is next month. I thought maybe we could celebrate together? Give him a real party for once, instead of just the two of us.”
“When exactly is his birthday?” I ask, my heart thumping. This may be the clue I need.
“April seventeenth.”
I do the math quickly. If Finn was born on April 17th eight years ago, that meant Claire would have gotten pregnant around mid-July, nine years ago.
I’d been in Belfast in mid-July. The timing worked for that part, at least.
But the eight-week relationship didn’t. I know I had only been there for six weeks total. She was lying about the duration of our relationship. And if she was lying about that…
“I need to go,” I say abruptly, standing up.
Claire blinks owlishly at me, startled. “What? But you just got here—”
“Something came up. Work. I’ll call you.”
I leave before she can respond, my mind racing.
The third crack comes from an unexpected source.
I was leaving the hotel when I ran into Sonny, one of Connor’s lower-level guys.
Sonny does surveillance work mostly—tailing people, gathering intelligence, the kind of grunt work that doesn’t require much finesse.
“Boss,” Sonny says respectfully. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” He eyes the hotel door curiously.
“Just staying here temporarily,” I say shortly, not needing Sonny to run back gossiping to the men. “What are you doing in this area?”
“Following up on something for the boss.” Sonny hesitates, then adds, “Actually, I was going to call you. I did that background check you ordered.”
I freeze. I hadn’t asked Sonny to do any background check. “What are you talking about?”
Sonny looks confused, his bushy brows furrowing. “On the woman? Claire Murphy? You asked me to pull her records a few days ago.”
What the fuck? “I didn’t—” I stop. Someone had ordered a background check on Claire. If it wasn’t me, then who?
Leo? No, none of Connor’s men would ever take orders from a Santoro. It definitely wasn’t Valentina, so the only one it could possibly be is goddamn Emma.
I’m going to kill her.
“Show me,” I tell Sonny.
He glances around. “We should probably go somewhere first.”
We head into a nearby diner, the smell of old grease and coffee permeating the establishment.
We sit at a table that has an odd film on it that’s slightly sticky. I keep my hands on my lap.
“Show me what you found,” I order impatiently, my nerves on edge.
Sonny pulls out a folder.
“That’s the thing, boss,” Sonny says, looking around furtively to make sure no one’s looking.
“There’s not much to find. She’s got no credit history before three years ago.
No employment records, no social media presence, no paper trail.
It’s like she materialized out of thin air three years ago and just started existing. ”
My stomach drops. “That’s not possible. Everyone has a paper trail.”
“Ah, not if they’re trying to hide it,” Sonny says. “Or if someone scrubbed it for them. I’ve seen this before—when people go into witness protection, or when they’re running from something. The old identity gets buried and the new one gets created.”
“Or when someone creates a new identity from scratch,” I say slowly, feeling the pieces come together.
Sonny nods quickly. “That too. I kept digging, tried to find records from Belfast. And you know what I found? Nothing. No marriage certificates, no birth records for any children under her name, no rental history. She’s a ghost.”
“That’s not possible,” I say slowly. “She lived there. Or lives there. She has specific details. Neighborhoods, streets—”
“I’m telling ya, I found nothing. But claims and records are two different things. Boss, a woman can’t live somewhere for years and leave absolutely nothing behind. A lease. A bank account. A phone contract.” He taps the thin folder. “There’s nothing. It’s like she was never there.”
It feels like the ground is shifting under my feet. “No birth records? But—but she has a child who goes to school.” Or so I’ve been told.
“I found nothing. If there’s a kid, he’s a ghost too.”
“She showed me the birth certificate,” I blurt out, remembering how she had pushed it toward me.
FINN MURPHY, it had said. MOTHER: CLAIRE MURPHY.
The father part had been blank.
Sonny shrugs. “It wasn’t a filed birth certificate then. Which makes no sense. I don’t know how it works in Ireland or whatever, but I would think the hospital would file those, you know? Sounds like someone just created one.”
This is wrong. All of it is wrong.
“Thanks, Sonny,” I say faintly, my stomach roiling and it’s not from the smell in here. “Keep this between us.”
Sonny dips his head respectfully. “You got it, boss.”
I at least treat Sonny to lunch, but after Sonny leaves I sit in the diner booth a little longer, staring at the folder. Nothing before three years ago. A child with no records.
Valentina’s voice again: Someone with serious resources tried to destroy our marriage.
Emma’s voice: She’s running a con.
I pull out my phone with shaking fingers, looking through my calendar, trying to pinpoint exactly when I’d been in Belfast nine years ago.
Thank god, the dates were there—June 28th through August 9th. Six weeks, just like I remembered.
Claire said we’d been together from mid-June through mid-August. But I hadn’t even arrived until late June.
Something clicks into place. Not proof, not yet. But doubt. Real, genuine doubt that makes my earlier certainty seem naive.