17. Valentina #3
He holds the door open to the clinic and I walk through it without looking at him or thanking him.
Claire and Finn are already inside. Ugh.
Claire turns when we come in, and for a moment a look of irritation crosses her face when she sees me, but then it transforms into a warm but insincere smile.
I want to go directly back through the door I just came through, but I don’t, because I am Valentina Santoro Brennan and I do not retreat.
“Good afternoon,” Claire says, the warmth dialed to its usual setting.
“Afternoon,” Cillian mumbles.
I say nothing as I find the same chair I sat in two days ago and sit down.
The wait is twenty minutes and it’s the longest twenty minutes I can remember.
Hell, it feels longer than the two days leading up to it. We are three people and a child in a waiting room and none of us have anything to say to each other.
The soft music is doing its best but failing completely.
Finn sits next to Claire and plays something on his tablet with the headphones on, which I am grateful for. Cillian sits two chairs from me.
Claire is across from both of us, and I can feel her gaze on me, looking for the next opening.
I’m waiting for the barb.
“I’m glad you could come,” she says to me, pleasantly. “It must be reassuring to be here in person.” A small pause then she turns her attention to Cillian. “Cillian, it’s so lovely that Valentina supports you through this. Not every wife would be so—understanding.”
Understanding. The word she has chosen for me being here against my own better judgment in a DNA clinic to find out if my husband has a son.
I open my mouth.
“Claire.” Cillian’s voice is sharp and flat, cutting across whatever I was about to say. His blue eyes are ice cold as he levels her with a glare. “Stop it.”
Claire blinks in shock, recoiling slightly. “I was just—I was just saying—” she splutters, trying to redeem herself, but Cillian has clearly had enough.
“I heard what you were saying.” He holds her gaze. “And I want you to stop if you know what’s good for you.”
The waiting room is very quiet for a moment, except for the sounds of the reception room music and the very faint sounds of Finn’s game
Claire looks, well, she looks embarrassed and stunned.
She tries to school her features into something that looks gracious but instead makes her look sour.
I look at the wall, a small smile playing on my lips. Well, well, well, it looks like Cillian can stand up for me. Looks like the Cowardly Lion actually has a roar.
The door opens and the same technician from before appears. “If everyone would like to come through,” she calls.
We file in and I clutch my purse strap again, using the sensation of the leather to ground me. It feels like I’m walking to my doom.
We are taken into the same small room as last time, except now there’s a different man seated at the desk. He’s older, with silver-framed glasses and white hair.
This must be the genetic counselor.
I sit down and Cillian sits beside me this time. I am hyperaware of the space between us, and how still he is. It means he’s wound tight underneath it.
Claire sits on the other side of him with Finn beside her. Finn has taken the headphones off now and looks at the counselor, a serious expression on his face.
The counselor opens the folder and clears his throat.
“I want to walk you through what we found,” he says.
“The test analyzed twenty-one genetic loci—that’s twenty-one distinct points in the DNA—comparing the child’s sample with the alleged father’s.
” He looks up, making sure we are understanding him.
I don’t. Science was never my strongest subject.
“The comparison is highly accurate. We look for matching alleles at each locus.”
“In English, please,” Cillian says tightly, his jaw ticking and his leg jingling slightly. “What did you find?”
The counselor looks a little annoyed at the interruption but looks at the page.
“The test indicates a probability of paternity of 99.97%,” he says. “That is considered conclusive. Based on the genetic analysis”—he pauses, just slightly—“Cillian Brennan is the biological father of the child, Finn Murphy.”
The room moves, somehow. It tilts just slightly off its axis, and I suddenly cannot find the floor.
99.97%.
Conclusive.
I was so sure.
The timing. The practiced story.
The is it accurate asked in the tone of someone who already knows the answer.
All of it pointing one direction, all of it adding up to something wrong, something off, something my gut has been screaming at me about.
The DNA doesn’t lie.
Cillian stiffens beside me. I hear him exhale, slow and controlled, then can feel his gaze on mine.
The counselor talks about documentation and official reports and what happens next, but I can’t hear anything he says over the roaring in my ears.
Conclusive.
99.97%.
From somewhere across the room I hear Claire make a small soft sound of triumph.
She won.
She fucking won.
The gamble paid off.
I stare at the floor.
I was so sure.
I was so completely, absolutely sure.
And I was wrong.