Page 182 of Ruthless Claim

But the private investigator did hunt down a woman he claims is the same woman who Cillian had met in Ireland all those years ago. He had given the woman’s number to Cillian and told him to call her.

I whole heartedly agree. This is it. This is going to be the break we need to finally get some answers.

Cillian’s fingers, I notice, are not entirely steady when he dials.

He puts it on speaker and sets it on the table between us and we both stare at it like it might bite us.

It rings three times before a woman answers.

“Hello?” The woman is definitely Irish and slightly wary. I glance at Cillian who shakes his head.

This sounds nothing like the Claire we knew.

“Is this Claire Murphy?” Cillian asks, staring at the phone as if it holds all the answers.

A pause. “Who’s asking?”

“My name is Cillian Brennan. We met in the summer of 2017 at The Duke of York on Hill Street. I’m not sure if you⁠—”

“Brennan.” The woman pauses and there’s a slight hitch to her voice when she speaks next. “I—yes. I think I remember.”

Cillian’s jaw tightens and I place a comforting hand on his. “You think you remember?”

“Vaguely,” she says, carefully. “It was a long time ago. Can I ask what this is about?”

“I need to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me.” Cillian sounds like himself, but from the way his foot is knocking against the leg of the couch, he’s agitated. “Has anyone ever contacted you asking about me? Someone you didn’t know?”

“I—what? Not that I—no.” She sounds genuinely baffled now. “What’s going on? You’re worrying me.”

I grimace. Cillian is about to freak this woman out. “Someone has been using your name,” Cillian says slowly, his lips twisted as if he’s just sucked a sour lemon. “They’ve been going by Claire Murphy and claiming to know me.”

Dead silence. It goes on for so long that Cillian taps on the screen of the phone, making sure she hadn’t hung up.

“I’m sorry, someone’s been what?” she woman splutters, sounding alarmed.

“Using your name. Claire Murphy.”

“That’s—” She lets out a short, slightly hysterical laugh. “Murphy isn’t even my—it’s my middle name. My name is Claire O’Malley. I don’t use Murphy. I haven’t used it since I was—” She stops abruptly.

Cillian’s face whitens and I lean in closer, heart thumping. “Since you were what?”

There’s another long pause. When she speaks again, she sounds like she would very much like to not talk about this. “Since I was young and stupid and occasionally gave it out instead of my actual surname when I didn’t—when I wasn’t⁠—”

“When you weren’t comfortable,” Cillian says flatly.

I press my lips together so hard they go white.

“I’m not trying to be rude,” the real Claire says quickly. “It was nothing personal, you just—at that pub you seemed—you had a certain—” She stops and tries again. “Look, I was twenty-four. I wasn’t always—I made different decisions about who I gave my information to. That’s all.”

Cillian looks at me in disbelief, his ears turning a bit pink. I look back at him with wide, completely innocent eyes.

“Right,” he says, while looking like he’d like to fling himself off the balcony. “I understand.”

“I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean—it wasn’t—” Claire is clearly mortified now, which almost makes me feel sorry for her. “Can we just—what is this woman doing with my name? Should I be worried?”

“She was trying to ruin me,” Cillian says flatly. “And my family. She claimed to be you and claimed we had a—” He pauses, his whole face now going red. I’m biting my lip so hard I can nearly taste blood. “A history. A child.”

The silence this time is genuinely spectacular.