24. Valentina
VALENTINA
Five weeks pass and we find absolutely nothing.
I know this not just because Cillian tells me everything now but because I’ve been doing my own digging.
I have money and contacts, along with a mob boss brother who answers my calls on the first ring when it matters and a sister-in-law who has become my primary intelligence source because Emma, bless her, cannot help herself.
“Leo says the offshore accounts match what he knows about the Corsicans,” Emma tells me on day five, Seraphina babbling in the background. “But when he tries to get more information, it all falls apart. He’s furious.”
I tug on a lock of my hair in frustration. Every time we follow one thread, it seems to disintegrate. Whoever hired Claire is good at erasing their tracks.
“He threw his laptop yesterday in anger,” Emma continues.
I pause. “Cillian did?” I ask, sitting up straighter. I really hope he didn’t—Macbooks are expensive, although the thought of me worrying about expenses is hilarious given how rich we all are.
“No, Leo did.” Emma pauses before humming thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Cillian has though. He’s always had a temper.”
Eight days after the shooting, I call Sonny. Emma had convinced him to look up anything information about Claire, insisting that Cillian was the one who wanted it but was too busy to ask himself.
Emma had targeted Sonny specifically because he had always had a soft spot for her and Emma wasn’t above using that to her advantage.
Sonny walks me through everything he found and lost, and I listen and ask questions and take copious notes. By the time I hang up and look at my notepad. All I have are question marks.
Connor has even decided to investigate this as well, throwing enough money to fund a small country. I find this out when he personally calls me. How the hell he got my phone number is beyond me.
“I’m taking over this investigation,” he had told me, as if this was the greatest thing I’ve ever heard.
I’m grateful he wasn’t in front of me as I rolled my eyes. “I appreciate that, Connor,” I tell him politely. I do not appreciate it. I wish he would go the fuck away and let us figure this out.
“I’ve allocated significant resources to finding whoever is behind this.” He pauses, clearly waiting for me to be impressed. “Significant resources.”
I fantasize about wrapping one of Cillian’s ties around Connor’s neck and squeezing. “That’s very reassuring,” I say, trying my hardest to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I’m not sure it’s working.
Connor huffs. “I don’t tolerate attacks on this family.”
My smile is poisonous. “Neither do I.”
He pauses. I don’t think Connor Brennan is accustomed to women agreeing with him in ways that somehow don’t feel like agreement.
“I’ll keep you informed,” he says, sounding a little annoyed.
God, can he go away now? “Please do,” I respond before hanging up. I grit my teeth in irritation. Significant resources. As if we haven’t been doing the same damn thing day and night since Claire and Finn disappeared.
Cillian had hired a private investigator, but all his leads were coming to dead ends.
But the private investigator did hunt down a woman he claims is the same woman who Cillian had met in Ireland all those years ago. He had given the woman’s number to Cillian and told him to call her.
I whole heartedly agree. This is it. This is going to be the break we need to finally get some answers.
Cillian’s fingers, I notice, are not entirely steady when he dials.
He puts it on speaker and sets it on the table between us and we both stare at it like it might bite us.
It rings three times before a woman answers.
“Hello?” The woman is definitely Irish and slightly wary. I glance at Cillian who shakes his head.
This sounds nothing like the Claire we knew.
“Is this Claire Murphy?” Cillian asks, staring at the phone as if it holds all the answers.
A pause. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Cillian Brennan. We met in the summer of 2017 at The Duke of York on Hill Street. I’m not sure if you—”
“Brennan.” The woman pauses and there’s a slight hitch to her voice when she speaks next. “I—yes. I think I remember.”
Cillian’s jaw tightens and I place a comforting hand on his. “You think you remember?”
“Vaguely,” she says, carefully. “It was a long time ago. Can I ask what this is about?”
“I need to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me.” Cillian sounds like himself, but from the way his foot is knocking against the leg of the couch, he’s agitated. “Has anyone ever contacted you asking about me? Someone you didn’t know?”
“I—what? Not that I—no.” She sounds genuinely baffled now. “What’s going on? You’re worrying me.”
I grimace. Cillian is about to freak this woman out. “Someone has been using your name,” Cillian says slowly, his lips twisted as if he’s just sucked a sour lemon. “They’ve been going by Claire Murphy and claiming to know me.”
Dead silence. It goes on for so long that Cillian taps on the screen of the phone, making sure she hadn’t hung up.
“I’m sorry, someone’s been what?” she woman splutters, sounding alarmed.
“Using your name. Claire Murphy.”
“That’s—” She lets out a short, slightly hysterical laugh. “Murphy isn’t even my—it’s my middle name. My name is Claire O’Malley. I don’t use Murphy. I haven’t used it since I was—” She stops abruptly.
Cillian’s face whitens and I lean in closer, heart thumping. “Since you were what?”
There’s another long pause. When she speaks again, she sounds like she would very much like to not talk about this. “Since I was young and stupid and occasionally gave it out instead of my actual surname when I didn’t—when I wasn’t—”
“When you weren’t comfortable,” Cillian says flatly.
I press my lips together so hard they go white.
“I’m not trying to be rude,” the real Claire says quickly. “It was nothing personal, you just—at that pub you seemed—you had a certain—” She stops and tries again. “Look, I was twenty-four. I wasn’t always—I made different decisions about who I gave my information to. That’s all.”
Cillian looks at me in disbelief, his ears turning a bit pink. I look back at him with wide, completely innocent eyes.
“Right,” he says, while looking like he’d like to fling himself off the balcony. “I understand.”
“I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean—it wasn’t—” Claire is clearly mortified now, which almost makes me feel sorry for her. “Can we just—what is this woman doing with my name? Should I be worried?”
“She was trying to ruin me,” Cillian says flatly. “And my family. She claimed to be you and claimed we had a—” He pauses, his whole face now going red. I’m biting my lip so hard I can nearly taste blood. “A history. A child.”
The silence this time is genuinely spectacular.
“A child,” Claire exclaims, horrified.
Cillian is truly uncomfortable. “Yes.”
“She told you that you and I had a child together.”
“Yes.”
“And you—” She stops herself, realizing she didn’t need to ask that question because it’s clear that yes, Cillian did believe the woman posing as her that they had a child together.
“I have a son,” she says instead, her voice climbing slightly.
"His name is Finn.” My eyes widen in shock and Cillian looks like he’s about to be sick.
“But he’s three. He looks exactly like my husband Declan who I’ve been married to for six years, and if you told Declan any of this he would—” She breaks off.
“Is there any chance this is some kind of misunderstanding? That maybe she’s someone else you—”
“There isn’t,” Cillian says firmly, shutting down that line of thought.
“Right.” Claire lets out a long exhale. “Right, okay.” From the rustling in the background, she sat down heavily. “So someone stole my name. My middle name that I used to avoid giving my real one to someone I’d just met, and this person claimed you and I had a child together?”
“That’s the sum of it, yes.”
Claire mutters something unintelligible. “I don’t—I don’t understand. We only—we only saw each other a few times that summer. How would they know who I am? Why would they steal my identity?”
That the million dollar question. It’s about as answerless as “what is the meaning of life?”
“Claire,” Cillian says, and to his credit his voice is remarkably even, “do you need anything from us? Do you want us to—”
“I want you to make sure she stops using my name,” Claire says firmly.
“I have a life here. A good life. I have Declan and Finn and I really, truly cannot have any part of whatever this is following me home.” She pauses again and this time, her voice is softer.
“I’m sorry it happened to you. I really am.
But I cannot stress enough how much I would like to never think about that summer and that pub again. ”
“Understood,” Cillian says because he too would like to never think about that summer and that pub ever again. “Thank you for your time.”
“Please don’t call again.”
My husband smiles sardonically. “I won’t.”
She hangs up.
We sit there in silence for a moment, digesting all the information we just learned.
“She gave you a fake name,” I say, my voice a little too bright, “because you made her uncomfortable.”
Cillian flashes me a filthy look. “Valentina,” he warns.
“How uncomfortable, exactly, on a scale of ten, did you make her?” I ask, unable to help myself.
Cillian throws his hands up in the air. “That’s what you seriously want to know?” he demands, looking peevish.
But underneath that irritation, I can see how disappointed he is.
He’d been hoping this woman would have something we could go on, and instead we got a mortified housewife in Cork who gave him a fake name because he seemed a bit intense at a bar nearly a decade ago.
My amusement fades.
“Hey,” I say quietly, reaching for him.
He shakes his head slightly and pockets his phone a bit roughly. “Still fucking nothing.”
“Still nothing,” I agree.
We sit with that for a moment.
“She was right though.” A small smirk plays at my lips. “You do have a certain—”
He clamps a hand over my mouth and I lick it. Jerking back, he stares at me in disbelief.