17. Valentina #2
I can feel Cillian looking at me and a flash of anger runs through me.
He watched that exchange and he said absolutely nothing.
This fucking asshole can destroy normal men but decides to sit out women having bitchy conversations.
But then again, why am I surprised? He’s a coward when it comes to Connor, so why would I ever think he would defend his wife?
The door to the interior opens and a woman in scrubs looks out. “Mr. Brennan? If you’d like to come through, we’re ready for you.”
Cillian, Claire, and Finn stand.
I stand.
Claire glances at me, a wrinkle on her forehead. “Oh—you don’t need to come back. You can wait here, it’s just—”
I flash her my most withering smile. “I’m coming,” I tell her, and I walk past her through the door before she can finish the sentence.
She exhales sharply behind me as the nurse leads us to the examination room.
The room is small and smells like antiseptic.
There are three chairs against one wall and a table with equipment I don’t look at.
The technician is a woman in her thirties, efficient and pleasant, with the practiced warmth of someone who handles delicate matters all day and has learned how to handle them.
“So,” she says, looking between us, “I just want to walk everyone through what we’re doing today.
We’ll be collecting a buccal swab—that’s just a cheek swab—from both the child and the alleged father, as well as a small blood sample from the father.
It’s quick and painless.” She smiles at Finn.
“Have you ever had a check-up at the doctor where they looked in your mouth?”
Finn nods, standing very close to his mother. He fiddles with the strap of his backpack.
“It’s just like that. Maybe even quicker.” She looks at all of us. “The samples go to our lab and we’ll have results for you in three to five business days. We’ll call the primary contact.” She glances at her paperwork. “That’s you, Mr. Brennan. Any questions before we start?”
“No,” Cillian says testily. He has his arms crossed over his broad chest and I can feel the agitation and anxiety pouring off him. I would know; I feel the same way.
“Is it accurate?” Claire asks tightly. “The test?”
The technician nods. “Extremely. For paternity testing we look at multiple genetic markers, which gives us a probability result. Anything above 99% is considered conclusive for paternity, and anything below 1% is considered conclusive exclusion,” she says calmly, like she says this a lot. “The science is very reliable.”
Claire nods, satisfied. Like she knew the answer and wanted it said out loud.
The swabs take about ninety seconds. Finn opens his mouth cooperatively when asked, flinches slightly at the scratch of it, but recovers immediately.
Cillian’s is done just as quickly.
The blood draw takes slightly longer, but it’s not much, just a small tube. Cillian looks at the wall while it happens.
Then the technician caps everything and labels it. She places it in a rack like it isn’t the thing that might change everyone in this room’s life.
“Three to five business days,” she says again. “We’ll be in touch.”
That’s it. That’s the whole process. Ninety seconds of cotton swabs and one small tube of blood and three to five days of waiting while the science does whatever the science does, then we’ll know.
God, I want to be sick.
We file back into the waiting room and I walk toward the exit without looking at any of them.
“Valentina.” Cillian’s low voice is behind me.
I keep walking, refusing to dignify him with a response.
“Valentina.” He’s closer now, then his hand rests on my arm, gentle, not restraining. Fire courses up my arm from his touch, my body screaming for more contact. “Please. Two minutes. Just—”
I whirl around.
He looks at me with pleading blue eyes, silently begging me to talk to him. I almost crack, but behind him Claire watches us from across the waiting room with Finn’s hand in hers.
My face (and heart) harden.
“Leave me alone,” I order, yanking my arm today. “Call Emma when the results come in. But do not contact me under any circumstances.”
I spin on my heel and leave, unable to see the devastation that’s probably all over his face.
I push through the door and I walk out into the New York air. I gasp and inhale and exhale for a beat, trying to push down my emotions.
My phone buzzes. A text from Emma: I see you. Coming now.
A black Range Rover pulls up and Emma’s driver hops out to open the back passenger door.
Emma sits in the leather seats and she winces when she takes a look at my face as I get in.
“That bad?” she asks, handing me a granola bar and a bottle of water.
"Worse," I murmur, untwisting the cap and taking a sip, ignoring the granola bar. My stomach is too queasy to eat.
The car pulls away from the curb and I watch the clinic disappear behind us, leaving Cillian behind with Claire and Finn.
“Tell me everything,” Emma says.
So I do. I tell her about the awkwardness and the comments from Claire.
By the time I finish my story, Emma’s eyebrows have disappeared into her bangs. She chews on her bottom lip and fiddles with her wedding rings.
“Do you think she’s running a con?” She finally blurts out.
Instead of dismissing that thought, I think about Claire in the waiting room. The satisfied nod when the technician confirmed the test’s accuracy.
“I think something is wrong with this whole story,” I muse, running my hands on the seat next to me, trying to gather my thoughts.
“The timing of it—she shows up exactly when Cillian and I were—” I swallow heavily, “—when things were actually real between us. Her story is too practiced. She showed up at the apartment while he was out, not when he was home.”
I look at my hands. “Every move she’s made has been calculated to cause maximum damage to this marriage and she has been doing it with a smile on her face and I cannot prove any of it.”
“We could look into her,” Emma says urgently. “I could have Dante hire someone and find out who she actually is.”
God, is that tempting. What I wouldn’t do to dig up dirt on that little bitch and expose her. But I shake my head. “If Finn is Cillian’s, it doesn’t matter what she is. The biology doesn’t change.” I look out the window and the city going past. “And if he’s not—”
I stop.
Emma waits.
“If he’s not,” I say carefully, “then someone went to a very great deal of trouble to make it look like he is.”
The car is quiet for a moment. I can see the wheels spinning in Emma’s head as she thinks through the implications. “The test will tell us,” she says finally.
“The test will tell us,” I agree.
I press my hand flat on the window glass and watch the city go by and I think about how long three to five business days will actually be.
I think about Finn’s face in that waiting room, looking at Cillian with those serious brown eyes. About Claire’s smile when the technician described the science as very reliable.
Three to five days.
God help me.
Cillian calls on day two.
My phone lights up on the kitchen counter at ten in the morning. My heart leaps into my throat when I see his name. Even though I told him to call Emma and not me, I still answer the phone.
“The lab called,” he says. “They have the results.” There’s a long pause. “Do you want to—” He stops and starts again. “I think you should be there. When they tell us. I think you should hear it at the same time I do.”
I swallow heavily. Can I do this again? Can I really go to that clinic and see Claire’s smug and punchable face and hear the results?
Part of me thinks I can’t but I know I would be driving myself crazy if I declined and had to stay here, running through every scenario while waiting for another phone call.
No, I have to be there and hear the results from the horse’s mouth.
“Okay,” I say.
A beat of silence.
“Okay,” he breathes, a little shocked. I don’t think he was expecting me to say yes. I smile grimly. He truly never really knew me then.
“What time?” I ask.
Two o’clock, he says. The same clinic.
I hang up and stare at nothing.
My stomach is roiling and my heart is beating so fast I’m surprised it hasn’t burst out of my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut and for the first time in a long time (since probably the last time Mamma forced us all to church), I pray to God that the test results will be negative.
They have to be, right? Finn looks nothing like Cillian. I’ve studied the boy a lot the past few times I’ve seen him and I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s no way that Finn can be Cillian’s son.
Let the truth about Claire Murphy come out. Let Cillian and I figure out what’s left of us.
I get in the car at one-thirty.
My stomach is in knots that have nothing to do with the pregnancy. My hands are in my lap and I’m gripping them together.
I’ve eaten half a banana this morning, which my body accepted under protest.
My mouth is dry, but I don’t want to drink anything, and my heart hasn’t stopped beating fast.
My therapist would throw a fit if she saw me right now.
The clinic looks exactly the same as it did two days ago. That seems like a lifetime ago. But the only reason why I’m still upright and able to be here is because I am convinced the DNA results will be negative.
I still think I’m right.
Cillian is outside on the pavement when the car pulls up.
He sees me get out and relief crosses his face.
He clearly feared that I wasn’t going to come, which is ridiculous because as a certified Control Freak I need to be here.