Page 63 of His

“About what?”

“I filled her in on what Squire thinks could be going on.”

“What did she say?”

“Her biggest concern is that she doesn’t want to be on any more drugs.”

A moment passes.

“Did . . . did you say anything?”

“You mean did I tell her that I know Chloe isn’t mine? No.” His hand trembles as he slides his coffee on the bedside table, then he drops his head into his hands with a loud, frustrated groan. Alarmed, I set down my cup, raise to my knees and wrap my arms around his back.

“It’s all I can think about when I look at her,” he growls, “when I talk to her, when she speaks to me. I hate her so much. I hate her, Sabine.” To my utter shock, Astor begins quietly sobbing. He’s officially hit his breaking point. “But I can’t say anything right now, right? I mean, Sabine, what am I supposed to do? Throw her out on her ass? She has nothing of her own.”

He’s right. It’s an impossible situation, especially when he blames himself for her depression in the first place.

I hug him from behind. “Astor, take a deep breath.” Tears well in my eyes. I stroke his arms, his back, resting my forehead on the back of his head. “One day at a time, remember?”

He drags in a deep inhale. Just as he’s blowing it out, the door opens. Cillian, wet from the rain, fills the doorway, his large silhouette backlit by the hallway light.

A phone is in his hand.

“Astor. The paternity test results are in.”

Forty-One

Sabine

The paternity test. We’d been so preoccupied with Valerie’s poor health that the pending test results had slipped our mind.

Astor pushes off the bed, his face and eyes red from crying.

Cillian’s brows pull together in concern. I wonder if this is the first time he’s seen his boss cry. He looks at me. I shake my head—he’s not doing well.

Astor reaches for the phone. Cillian seems to hesitate, a war battling in his head. But Astor snatches it.

“It’s on speaker,” Cillian informs us.

“This is Astor.”

“Astor, hey, it’s Nick.”

Lightning flashes against the wall.

“I want to confirm that you wanted me to compare the DNA from the tooth to Carlos Leone’s DNA, correct? C-A-R . . .” He spells out the name.

“That’s correct.”

“Okay. Well, I did, and it’s not a match.”

“I’m sorry—you said it’s not a match?”

“Correct. The father of Chloe Stone is not Carlos Leone.”

Astor looks at me, wide-eyed.

“And, just to cover all the bases, you’re definitely not the father either. I checked just to confirm that as well.”

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