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“It’s my turn.”
“Y’already had a turn,” Hannah says, using her elbow as a barricade as Ethan tries to steal the remote control from her.
The twins got a motorized toy sailboat from Connor and wanted to sail it on the lake behind the castle. These gifts come from him every so often to make up for being a shitty dad. The problem is, he always seems to forget there are two of them. He’s so self-absorbed, he thinks he’s doing them a kindness, but all it does is leave them bickering.
“Hey, no one will have a turn if you can’t play nice,” Amber warns sternly.
She’s kept her distance since the party, which is why I didn’t want anything to happen between us. I enjoy her company, but now, things are just fucking weird.
My phone rings, and when I see a number I don’t recognize, I excuse myself so I can answer it in private.
“Hello?”
“Is this Puck Kelly?” asks a male voice I don’t recognize.
“Aye, it is. Who’s this?”
“Oh, Mr. Kelly, this is Dr. Dunne from Oak Park Clinic. Yer results are here. I understand the urgency, so I wanted to phone and tell ye—”
“What are they?” I ask, cutting him off.
Finding someone who wouldn’t tell Connor what I’m up to was near impossible, but Dr. Dunne is new to Belfast and not yet aware of the Kelly reputation. I could have used those home paternity tests, but going to a clinic would give me the most accurate results.
“If ye wanted to come in—”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Doctor, but please tell me the fuckin’ results.”
He clears his throat. “The samples of hair, blood and saliva you provided, well, they conclude that the subject is excluded as the biological father.”
Excluded…
“Mr. Kelly? Did ye hear me? The data gathered from the test do not support a relationship of paternity. I’m awful sorry. However, if—”
I don’t bother listening to anything further because what would be the point? The results all confirm that Connor Kelly is not my father. That I’m not a Kelly.
“Thank you, Doctor.” I hang up, ’bout to lose my shite. All I can hear on repeat are the wordsexcluded as the biological father.
I don’t know how to feel. Relieved in some ways not to be related to that pile o’ shit, but the alternative is just as bad.
When my phone vibrates, I’m about to hurl it into the lake. But it’s Cian’s number that flashes on my screen. I’ve been trying to get a hold of this fucker all day.
“The fuck ye—”
But the panic in his voice has me forgetting everything. Something is terribly wrong.
“Punky, they think I’m you,” Cian pants. “And I’ve let them think it.”
At first, I think he’s hammered, but then I realize he’s breathless because he’s hurt.
“Cian? Where are ya?”
“I don’t know,” he confesses, wheezing in pain. “But ye can’t come here. They’ll kill ya.”
“And if I don’t, they’ll kill you instead. Who’s got ye? Cian?” I press when he doesn’t reply.
“The Doyles. But—”
There are no buts in this situation.
