Page 140 of Ruthless Claim

17

VALENTINA

Cillian arranges the test.

I find this out from Emma, who finds it out from Leo, who apparently had a brief and uncomfortable conversation with Cillian about it that Leo described as the most tense four minutes of his adult life, which is saying something given the general level of tension in my brother’s adult life.

Cillian contacted a private lab on the Upper East Side. It’s apparently a place that handles exactly this kind of situation for exactly the kind of people we are, discreet and expensive and with results that hold up in court if they need to.

He called ahead to let them know there would be four of us, and when the woman at the clinic asked if the child’s mother would be present, Leo said Cillian told him he promised all parties will be attending.

Emma delivered this information to me over the phone. From the tone of her voice, she clearly had strong feelings about it but was choosing not to share them with me.

“He assumed I’d come,” I said, still slightly shocked that Cillian actually was planning on including me. I had assumed he’d try to keep it secret and only tell me once the results came in.

“He assumed you’d want to know,” Emma pointed out. “That isn’t the same thing.”

She’s right that they’re not the same thing. I do want to know, which is why I am sitting in the back of a car on my way to a medical facility on 78th Street to watch my husband have his cheek swabbed alongside a woman from Belfast and her son.

God, my life is a fucking Maury Povich show.

The anxiety has been not only mental but physical too since yesterday.

The nausea is worse than it’s been in weeks. My hands have a low persistent tremor I’ve been hiding inside pockets and around coffee cups; there’s a tightness in my chest that comes and goes but came back fully last night.

I’ve eaten small meals. I’ve done my breathing exercises. I have been to therapy four times in the past week and I honestly cannot tell you a single thing my therapist said because I mentally was not there.

I haven’t spoken to Cillian since I kicked him out. I’ve let Emma and Leo handle all logistical things about the test.

I’ve been sleeping in the penthouse because even though Emma and Leo have a very spacious and comfortable guest room, it’s not my room.

Plus, this is my home and I will not be driven out of it.

But even so, I’ve been waking up most mornings thinking about the results and what they mean either way.

If the test comes back negative, something is very wrong with Claire Murphy’s story and I’m going to find out what it is.

If the test comes back positive⁠—

I haven’t let myself finish that thought. Every time I get close to it, I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack, so I’ve been throwing myself in my work at the gallery.

I’ve also rearranged my closet another four times. Mamma has invited me out constantly and Emma, Leo, and Seraphina have been keeping me company.

The car comes to a gentle stop. “We’re here, Mrs. Brennan,” my driver calls.

My heart starts pounding like crazy and my mouth suddenly feels like pennies, which is a sign that I’m going to be sick.

For a second, I can’t move.

My hand hovers over the door handle, trembling.

Valentina, you can survive anything for five minutes.

Mamma’s voice slips into my mind, clear as if she’s sitting beside me instead of across town, probably worrying herself sick.

People think courage is some grand, sweeping thing, but most of the time it’s just putting one foot in front of the other when you’d rather run.

I swallow hard, pressing my lips together.