Page 129 of Ruthless Claim

“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Where should I start?”

And something in the way she says it—the particular readiness of it, like she’s been waiting for the invitation—makes me feel the crawling thing again.

“Wherever you want,” I respond.

A soft, dreamy look crosses her face. “There are things I didn’t mention,” she starts, leaning forward like we’re best friends and sharing secrets. “Earlier. I didn’t want to—it felt like too much, with everything else.” She glances at Finn, who is totally absorbed in his tablet. She looks back at me. “But you said you wanted to understand the full picture.”

I don’t. Not anymore. “I did,” I respond though my mouth feels dry and my stomach flip flops with anxiety.

“We didn’t just see each other at the pub,” Claire says. “That’s what I made it sound like but—we had a week, toward the end, where his schedule cleared up a bit and we spent almost every day together.” She pauses, gathering her thoughts. “I showed him the city. The real parts of Belfast, not the tourist parts. We drove out to the coast one afternoon.” She looks at her hands, like the memory is in them. “He was different outside of the pub. More relaxed. Quieter. He talked about growing up in New York, and his family. How much he loved his cousin—Emma, I think it is? He said she was young but he thought she and I would be really good friends.”

I stiffen at the mention of my sister-in-law, and the green monster rears its ugly head.

Emma is my friend, not hers. There’s an odd ringing in my ears, and I try to shove it back so I can keep listening.

“—he talked to me about things I don’t think he talked about very often.” She smiles serenely at me and I suddenly want to punch her in the face. “I got the sense it was easier, you know? Talking to someone who didn’t know any of it. Who wasn’t part of that world.”

I’m very still.

“He cooked for me once,” she continues fondly and something acidic curdles in my gut. “In my flat. He just took over my kitchen like it was completely natural and made something absolutely delicious with whatever was in the fridge.” She lets out a small laugh, almost as if she’s amused herself. “I remember thinking this is someone who knows how to be at home somewhere.” She pauses and looks at me meaningfully. “He felt like home, I suppose, for those few weeks.”

He felt like home.

I pick up my mug and take a sip, just to do something besides throttle her. The tea is cold and the ginger is bitter on my tongue.

“And there was one night,” she says, quieter now, “toward the very end, when we both knew he was leaving in a few days. We didn’t really talk about it. But I remember he…” She stops, seeming to struggle with what to say to me. “He was different that night. Softer. Said things he probably wouldn’t have said otherwise.” She holds my eye contact. “I think he knew it was real too and it wasn’t nothing. We had such a connection.”

It wasn’t nothing.

She has just handed me a whole other version of my husband that I have never met and she knows it.

“Eight weeks doesn’t sound like long to know someone but by the end of our time together, it felt like I had known him for years.” Claire sighs, looking forlorn. “We really were intense. It left a mark. Among other things.” She pauses and glances at Finn meaningfully. My stomach drops to my damn toes. “Some things you just never forget.”

She stops herself there and looks at her hands, like she’s being careful not to say too much.

I don’t buy that shit for a second. She is absolutely saying exactly what she wants to say.

I need more tea. Actually no, I need something significantly stronger than tea. Like a martini. Or three.

“It sounds like it really meant something to you,” I manage to get out through gritted teeth.

“It did.” She nods. “Then he left and I had to deal with the reality of that.” The warmth shifts and gets heavier, a cloud passing over her face. “On my own. Every milestone, every parent-teacher night, every time Finn asked me a question I didn’t know how to answer.” She shakes her head. “You can’t imagine what it’s like. Doing all of that without anyone in your corner.”

Her voice has taken on a new quality, but I can’t put my finger on it. Envious? Smug? Annoyed? Like she’s owed a great big debt and now that she’s tracked down the person who owes it, she plans on cashing in.

“How hard,” I say, unable to infuse any sense of sympathy in my voice.

Claire notices it. Her eyes narrow. “It was.” She looks at me suspiciously. “But we managed. Finn’s a wonderful kid. He deserved so much better.” Her eyes fall to my stomach and it takes everything in me to not cover it up with a pillow. “At least your baby will have their father from the beginning.”

I stiffen.

Claire looks at her son. “Finn’s waited eight years to get to know his father.”

Ein. Zwei. Drei. Vier. Fünf.

I breathe through my nose.

Sechs. Sieben. Acht. Neun. Zehn.