Page 168 of Ruthless Claim

But I keep thinking back to Claire’s satisfied face when the first results came in. The small exhaled sound. The satisfied note to it.

Either she knew it was accurate because it was real, or she knew it was accurate because she’d make sure it would be.

I’ll find out soon enough. I take another deep breath and walk inside.

Cillian is already there, sitting in a chair in the reception area, and he looks worse than he did a few days ago. He definitely hasn’t shaved in a while as he’s got more than the beginnings of a reddish beard adorning his jaw and cheeks. There are dark smudges under his eyes and he just looks…tired.

He turns when I come in and the look of relief on his face makes my heart clench.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, crossing the room toward me. He makes a move to hug me then stops, as if realizing what he’s doing.

I flash him an awkward smile and tighten my grasp on my purse. “Of course I came.”

We don’t close the distance. There’s still too much in the way. But we’re both in the same room and I don’t want to kill him, so that’s something.

We sit down in the waiting room chairs. It’s awkward as hell. I fold my hands in my lap. My leg wants to bounce from anxiety, but I cross my ankles to prevent that. My stomach is roiling and I regret those three bites of croissant. I breathe through my nose slowly, willing the feeling to go away.

“How are you feeling?” Cillian asks, without looking at me.

“Okay,” I lie. “You?”

A dark chuckle escapes him. “You mean you can’t tell? I look like shit, Valentina.”

I can’t argue with that so I clamp my lips shut and will the receptionist to call us back.

Thankfully, the door opens and our names are called. Breathing a sigh of relief, I get up and follow Cillian to the back of the clinic to a room where the genetic counselor is. This time, the counselor is a woman and she’s older. Maybe early sixties with wire-rimmed glasses and tightly braided salt-and-pepper hair.

After some nice pleasantries, the counselor types a few things in her computer before she turns to us again, her demeanor no-nonsense. My mouth grows dry and sweat starts to bead at my temples. Fuck, she’s going to say that Cillian really is Finn’s father…

“I’ve reviewed the samples multiple times,” she says, tapping her finger against the desk. She’s agitated, I realize. “Both samples were tested independently by two technicians. There was a full chain of custody.” She pauses and looks at us over her glasses. “The results are conclusive.”

Cillian stiffens, his face paling. I’m going to throw up.

She turns the screen.

Probability of Paternity: 0%

Cillian Brennan is excluded as the biological father of Finn Murphy.

The counselor’s mouth is still moving, but the words don’t reach me.

They flatten into something distant and muffled, like I’m hearing them through thick glass or underwater.

There’s a faint ringing in my ears again that I can’t place.

The room feels too bright all of a sudden, the air too still.

I’m looking at the screen.

Zero.

Not low. Not unlikely. Not a margin of error.

Zero.

For a second I think I’ve misread it.

Am I just not seeing another 1 and 0 to make it 100? I blink, making sure I’m not going blind. But I’m not.