Page 163 of Ruthless Claim

She’s lying. “That doesn’t look like nothing important.”

“It’s boring.” She laughs lightly, but it sounds off. “You don’t want to hear about my scheduling app.” She sets her hands on the table, and the smile comes back fully now. “I’m so glad you texted. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Finn actually—his teacher pulled me aside this week.”

I lean back. Here we go.

“She says he’s bright, which I knew, obviously, but she’s concerned about the resources at his current school. The reading program is underfunded and he’s ahead of his class already and just—” She shakes her head, pressing her lips together. “The schools in our district, Cillian. I looked into transferring him, but the waitlists for the better programs are brutal and the private options are just—” A small helpless gesture. “I’ve been picking up extra shifts but it’s never quite enough.”

I nod, only half-listening, then I perk up. Wait, schools in our district? That sounds like Finn is in school in New York. I thought they still lived in Ireland and were just here to find me. Have I ever confirmed where they have been?

Something else is niggling in my brain.

Something Valentina had said when we argued last. I don’t give a fuck that you spent eight weeks together.

Eight weeks? I thought I had only been in Belfast for six? I try to think back. God, that was a long time ago and I had done such ugly, brutal things that I tried to drink myself into oblivion most nights.

I’d hooked up with a few women. I definitely remember Claire. We slept together a few times.

But eight weeks? Had we really been together for eight weeks like she had told Valentina?

I think back hard, trying to remember the timeline.

If I remember correctly, I arrived in Belfast in late June, right after Emma’s birthday, and I thought I came back in early August, just in time for Connor’s birthday dinner on the fourteenth.

Eight weeks.

I turn that over in my mind while Claire tells me about the school reading program.

I wait until she pauses for breath before I say casually, “Can I ask you something? About Belfast.”

She blinks at the subject change but recovers smoothly. “Of course.”

“I’ve been trying to piece it together. For Finn’s sake—if he ever asks about how we met, I want to have the story straight.” I fiddle with a napkin. “I honestly can’t remember exactly how long we were actually—how long we actually spent together. That whole stretch is a blur for me.”

That sounds lame as fuck, but to my surprise Claire’s face softens. “It was eight weeks,” she says. “Almost exactly.”

“Right.” I nod slowly, like that’s jogging something loose. “Eight weeks.”

“Mid-June through mid-August.” She smiles a little. “I remember it better than you do, clearly.”

“Clearly,” I agree, my mind running at a million miles per hour.

That’s…that’s wrong. I hadn’t been in Belfast for eight weeks. I’d arrived later than that and left earlier.

The timeline doesn’t work.

“Cillian?” Claire looks at me expectantly. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Sorry.” I’m not sorry at all. “What was that?”

“I was saying that Finn’s birthday is next month. I thought maybe we could celebrate together? Give him a real party for once, instead of just the two of us.”

“When exactly is his birthday?” I ask, my heart thumping. This may be the clue I need.

“April seventeenth.”

I do the math quickly. If Finn was born on April 17th eight years ago, that meant Claire would have gotten pregnant around mid-July, nine years ago.

I’d been in Belfast in mid-July. The timing worked for that part, at least.