Page 114 of Ruthless Claim

There’s a woman in my hallway.

Mid-thirties, I’d guess.

She has brown hair, the kind that sits flat no matter what you do with it, pulled back in a ponytail with bits coming loose at the sides.

She’s average height, maybe two inches shorter than me.

She wears a green hooded coat with jeans and sensible, sturdy boots.

She has brown eyes with deep purple bags under her eyes. She’s clearly been tired for a long time.

She’s holding a child’s hand.

The boy is standing half behind her, peeking around her hip at me. He’s about seven or eight years old.

He has short brown hair but is also in desperate need of a haircut.

His brown eyes are watchful.

He’s wearing a blue coat, with muddy sneakers, and a small backpack with a plastic dinosaur keyring clipped to the zip.

I look at the woman.

I look at the boy.

A feeling of dread courses through me.

“May I help you?” I ask politely. Are they selling Boy Scout cookies or something? Oh god, are these fucking religious freaks? I will need to have a word with the front office about them allowing anyone in this building.

“You must be Valentina,” the woman says with an accent. I can’t exactly place it. Irish? Scottish? “I’m Claire Murphy. Is Cillian home?” She pauses. “He’s not returning my calls.”

Claire Murphy.

Nope. Nada. That name is a completely blank space in everything I know about my husband, which admittedly isn’t a whole bunch.

But this woman is standing in my hallway and knows my name. That means Cillian has talked about me.

But why is she asking for him? And who is this child? There’s a weird ringing in my ears, but I try to shove it aside. I need information first.

“What business do you have with my husband?” I make sure to stress the word “husband.” I don’t care if it makes me sound petty or spiteful. I’m staking my fucking claim.

She looks at the boy.

The boy looks at the floor.

Then she glances back at me and a strange expression crosses her face. It’s not guilt, per se, but a look of someone who is finding out that I know apparently nothing.

“I, uh, I knew Cillian a long time ago,” she says awkwardly. “We knew each other almost a decade ago in Belfast.”

That still doesn’t answer my question. “That’s lovely, but what business do you have with my husband?” I ask again, more firmly.

The woman’s cheeks darken. “Finn has been asking to meet his father,” she says, tugging the boy closer to her as if she’s afraid I’ll detonate.

Okay.

Okay okay okay okay.

The hallway does not tilt. I will not let the hallway tilt.