He had steadfastly continued to believe it. Brad, on the other hand, had begun to chafe at the constraints. He’d wanted to be more open, but Matt knew Branson, and had known the least he’d do was reassign them to different partners. Being right about Branson’s reaction had been little comfort when Brad had been murdered.
Matt had called to remind him to pick up a case of beer for their Labor Day barbecue. Brad had stopped at a convenience store on his way home and walked in on a robbery. He hadn’t even had time to draw his weapon.
The officers sent to notify Brad’s family hadn’t known about their relationship. They’d gone to his mother. Matt learned the news when Brad’s brother came to the house and walked into the backyard.
The moment was crystallized in Matt’s mind. He knew he’d never forget it. He’d been grilling burgers, laughing with his brother and sister-in-law over the fact Brad was late yet again. It was something of a running joke. He’d turned, a bottle of beer raised to his lips, when Brad’s brother Brendan stepped onto the deck. And he’d known, before a word had been said, from the shattered expression on his face.
From that moment forward, he couldn’t smell the scent of grilling meat without feeling bile hit the back of his throat. After the painful clarity of Brendan’s face, everything else became a blur. He knew his sister-in-law had cried. He’d heard her, as if from a long distance. He knew his brother Bill had caught his arms and lowered him into a chair. Someone had taken the meat off the grill, but not before it was burned beyond recognition. He just kept seeing Brendan’s eyes—the pain, the apology for being the one who had to tell him…
Brad’s mom had come to the house to get his dress uniform. Brad had been very specific that if anything happened to him, he was to be buried in his blues. Matt wanted to go to the funeral home with her but couldn’t think how to explain his presence. He was supposed to be Brad’s partner, not his lover. Even then, he couldn’t bring himself to openly admit it.
He went to work as usual, accepted the condolences of his fellow officers and walked through each day on autopilot. At night he lay in their bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to accept it, to believe Brad was really gone. How could he be gone? They hadn’t done all the things they wanted to yet. They’d never been to Hawaii, they hadn’t skied Aspen. They’d just bought the house. He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around any of it, moving only because his body wouldn’t rest, barely functioning.
He managed to maintain his outward composure right up until the end of Brad’s funeral. He was sitting next to Brad’s mother in the front row graveside at the cemetery, and he held it together through the eulogy and the hymns, the tributes and the accolades. He was one of six pallbearers, and he’d borne his corner of the casket stoically. He flinched a bit at the twenty-one gun salute, but his eyes stayed dry. He even made it through the bagpipe rendition of “Amazing Grace,” although it had been a test of his endurance. When it was almost over, and he was watching two members of the color guard lift and fold the American flag that had draped the coffin, he thought he’d made it. Captain Branson formally accepted the flag and brought it to Brad’s mother. Matt closed his eyes, reciting Almost done, almost done, over and over in his head. And then Brad’s mother touched his sleeve. He turned to find her holding the flag out, to him.
She was presenting him with the flag that had draped her son’s casket.
And he lost it.
He was blinded by tears when she pressed it gently into his hands. She slipped her arm around his shoulders and held him as he clutched it to his face and sobbed. And to his everlasting shame, while he was weeping his heartbreak into the red-and-white stripes, he was horrified, because there was no way Captain Branson and his fellow detectives could misinterpret the gesture. In the kindest, most heartfelt way imaginable, Brad’s mother had just outed him.
He felt the change from the moment he finally managed to pull himself together. The other officers either wouldn’t meet his eyes or looked at him as if he were suddenly someone they didn’t know. Branson was the worst. He stared at Matt, shook his head and walked away.
The following Monday Matt refused the offer to take time off and was back in the squad room as usual by nine. Branson told him that, as they were one man shy, he’d have to work without a partner for a while. Unspoken was the fact that finding out he was gay made the other detectives less than willing to be saddled with him.
He’d been stuck on desk duty for the fifteen months since, finishing off reports, doing research online, chasing down offenders who didn’t show up for their hearings or kids who went joy riding in someone else’s car. The only cases he’d been included on from the first call were a vandalized school building and a stolen vintage Model T. When the missing persons call came in on Christmas Eve, he’d been irritated at having his sleep disturbed, but he’d also known why he’d gotten it. The only reason Branson was calling him was that the other guys had wives and kids. Still, it was his first real case in months. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Then he told his captain he’d seen the ghost of little Abby Reynolds. He’d never forget the look on Branson’s face—thinly disguised disgust mingled with resignation. It had not been a request that he see the department shrink, it had been an order. Now, whether he liked it or not, he was on forced administrative leave for the foreseeable future, and his career was in jeopardy.
“Goddamned son of a bitch,” he growled, leaning back in the sofa, his head back, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Why in the hell had he said anything? Why hadn’t he just gone upstairs and pulled the captain aside to tell him he’d found the child’s body?
Because he hadn’t. He hadn’t just found her, she’d directed him there. As long as he lived he’d see the white face, the large blue eyes, the silently pointing hand. Just thinking about it again sent gooseflesh racing over his arms. He crossed them and roughly rubbed his biceps. Christ, he’d seen a ghost. He’d seen and talked to a ghost. Even while admitting it to himself, he couldn’t blame Branson and Pergola for thinking he was cracking up. Who the fuck actually saw ghosts?
The sharp ringing of his cell phone made him jerk. Shuddering, he dug the phone out of his pocket and checked the number before punching a button with a resigned sigh.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, carefully schooling the irritation out of his voice.
“Not Mom,” came the chipper reply. “It’s Sheila.”
“Hey, Sheil.” He loved his brother’s wife, but he had no desire to talk to her. Not right then.
“Hey, yourself. Where are you?”
“I’m at home. Why?”
“Oh, gee, I don’t know. Because you’re supposed to be here?”
He frowned. “I’m supposed to be…” He closed his eyes as realization dawned. “Christ, it’s Christmas.”
“Nice. Taking the Lord’s name in vain, and on his birthday no less. You’re going straight to hell.”
“Well, according to the parish priest, the whole gay thing already took care of that. Is Mom pissed?”
“More like worried.” Sheila lowered her voice. “What happened? It’s not like you to forget Christmas, of all things.”
He looked wearily at the corner of the living room where the tree would have stood, the presents beneath, had there been one. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to put it up. In fact, the room looked as cold and barren as he felt.
“I got called out on a case in the middle of the night. Missing child.”
She made a sympathetic sound, and then gasped. “Wait. Not the little Reynolds girl?”
“It’s made the news already, huh?” He rubbed his hand along his jaw. It felt rough with stubble.
“It was on the early show. It’s so awful.”
He sighed. “Yeah, it really is. Listen, I don’t suppose—”
“Your mom is worried about you. Can’t you com
e over, just for a while? Have some dinner? I know you haven’t eaten.”
He exhaled heavily. “I’m dead on my feet.”
“It’s Christmas. The kids want to see their Uncle Matty.”
He closed his eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“No one said it has to be fair. Whatever it takes to get you here. Like it or not, handsome, we need you. And you need us. You can’t just hide.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I know. Okay, tell Mom I’ll be there just as soon as I shower, okay?”
He hit the End button and pushed up from the sofa, feeling a hundred years old.
* * *
Standing in his mother’s fussy kitchen, Matt stared through lace curtains at the snow piling up outside. He could hear the sounds of conversation, laughter and the soundtrack of a video game. But he felt separate from it, isolated. Just as he always had. Although it wasn’t his family who created the detachment, but him. He heard a canned explosion, groans and his brother Bill’s laughing exclamation.
“Take that!”
“Dad, you suck.” His twelve-year-old nephew Kyle sounded disgusted, and the corner of Matt’s mouth twitched.
“Language, young man.”
From her voice, it sounded as if Sheila was standing right outside the kitchen door. Matt stiffened, hoping she wasn’t actually headed in to find him. When he heard the sound of steps on the linoleum behind him, he shook his head and let it fall forward, sighing. He should have known better.
“You can’t actually disappear, you know. The house is too small. Maybe if you’d gone out to the garage.”
“It’s twenty fucking degrees.” Matt turned and leaned his hip against the counter. “A moment’s peace, yes. Frostbite, no.”
“Language, sir,” she scolded,
“I’m not Kyle, Sheil. And you aren’t my mother.”
She lifted her faintly pointed chin, her blond hair brushing her slender shoulders. “No, if I were, I’d smack you and tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I’m not,” he retorted, jaw tight. “I didn’t sleep last night, I’m tired, and this morning I found the body of a six-year-old kid jammed in a refrigerator in her parent’s basement. Forgive me if I’m not the life of the party.”
Her hazel eyes, always so sharp with intelligence, softened in compassion. “Oh.” She took a step toward him. “I didn’t know you’d found her…”
He closed his eyes, but the image was seared into his mind. He saw her again, tiny wrists duct-taped together, slender ankles as well, blond hair tangled in the tape that had been wrapped cruelly around her head. Blood smeared on the pale pink nightie. The happily smiling fairy-tale princess on the front and the ruffles at the hem had seemed such an aberration…
He jerked when he felt a hand come to rest on his arm.
“Easy,” Sheila whispered, her hand moving up and down the stiff muscles in his forearm. “It’s all right.”
He blinked quickly, forcing back emotions he didn’t dare let swamp him. If he let go, he’d need the psych eval for real.
“You should have told me. I never would have been such a bitch.”
The chuckle that moved through his chest startled him and almost hurt, it was so unexpected. “Yes, you would.”
She was watching him, and her lips quirked. “All right, so I would.” She shrugged. “It’s part of my charm.”
Some of the tension in his shoulders eased at her lightened tone. “Is that what they’re calling it now? Charm.”
She shot him a narrow-eyed look and reached over his shoulder to open a cupboard and take out a wineglass, lifting a brow in unspoken question.
“Yeah, why not.”
She took down another glass, then opened the refrigerator door and filled both from the spigot on a box of white wine on the top shelf.
“Gotta love it,” he said as she handed him a glass. “Only my mother serves wine from a box.”
“Hey, it was a very good month.” Sheila grinned. “November, I believe.” She clinked her glass against his. “Besides, I remember us killing a box or two in college.”
“We were kids, and we were broke. She’s just cheap.” He took a sip of his wine. “Christ, that’s gross. I’ve had vinegar with less bite.”
“Snob.”
Matt and Sheila had been friends at Colorado State College. In fact, it was Matt who’d introduced Sheila to Bill during a family weekend. He’d been his brother’s best man when they married two years later. She studied Matt’s face now with eyes that were entirely too knowing.
“She didn’t mean it, you know,” she said.
Matt snorted. “Yes, she did.” When his mother had commented at dinner that she’d met a “lovely new young woman” at church and sent him a hopeful smile, he’d felt Sheila’s eyes on him from across the table.
She curled her hand around his arm. “Matty…”
He shook his head. “I should be used to it by now,” he muttered, drinking more of the bitter wine. “She’s never going to get it.”
“She just wants you to be happy.”
“She just wants me to be straight. At least this year she didn’t invite Father Morrissey for dinner. That was some fun.”
Sheila chuckled softly. “I’m not sure the poor man ever recovered from Brad telling him that, as a member of the Catholic clergy, he of all people should understand the ‘love that dare not speak its name.’”
His lips curved in a small smile even as pain lanced through his chest. He wondered if he’d ever get to the point when just hearing Brad’s name didn’t hurt. He knew Sheila had read his face when her hand tightened on his arm.
“I’m sorry. That was indelicate.”
“No, it was funny.”
“It was. He was funny.” Her eyes showed the depth of understanding that had made them friends since they were in their late teens.
“He was.” He closed his eyes. “I miss it. I miss him.”
“I know you do. But it’s been almost a year and a half. Maybe it’s time…”
His quick glare must have conveyed his irritation.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to push.”
His annoyance retreated and he managed a sardonic smile. “You just can’t help yourself.”
She narrowed her eyes at him but held her silence as she took a drink of her wine. When she finally did speak again, her voice was very soft. “So, are you going to tell me the real reason you’re on paid administrative leave, or am I supposed to believe what you fed your mother?”
He should have known she’d never buy the story about everyone involved with the missing child case being forced to take a few days off. It didn’t work that way and Sheila would know it. She was an ER trauma nurse. She dealt with abused children, their parents and cops more often than anyone should.
He gestured toward the open kitchen door. She closed it quietly, then leaned against it, her hazel eyes level.
Matt took a deep breath. “Branson ordered me to take the time off. I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Her full lips twitched with displeasure. She wasn’t a fan of Matt’s commanding officer. “Why?”
He stared into her eyes, her accepting face, and realized that, out of everyone in his life, the only person he could probably talk to about what had happened was standing in front of him. He still hesitated. It was so weird.
“Matthew.”
He sighed and dropped into one of the chairs at the small mahogany table his mother had kept in the same corner since he was six. He ran his hand through his hair. “You’re going to think I’m nuts.”
She lowered herself gracefully into the chair opposite him. “I know you’re nuts. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Nice.”
“I try.” She bump
ed her glass against his hand. “So, talk.”
He inhaled deeply before lifting his eyes to find her watching him patiently. “I saw her.” The words were stark, and she frowned slightly.
“I know,” she said, her eyes sad. “You told me…”
“No,” he interrupted her. “I saw her. Before I found her.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.” He drummed his fingers on the table, trying to find the words. “Okay, just—hear me out, all right?” She nodded, her eyes watchful.
Haltingly at first, he began to tell her what had happened, what he’d seen. The further into the story he got, the more irrational it sounded, even to his own ears. Her eyes were wide but there was no other expression on her pretty face. When he arrived at the part where he’d seen Abby in the basement, his voice grew rough.
“She was there. Right there, standing in front of me. She looked…so pale. But she was there, solid as you or me. I told her she wasn’t in trouble or anything, it would be all right, but she just kept shaking her head. And then she pointed at an old refrigerator, and I looked at it. When I looked back…” He stopped, his throat too tight to speak.
“When you looked back?” Sheila prodded.
He swallowed. “She was gone. Like she’d never been there at all. She was gone.”
Sheila’s hand lifted, her fingers covering her parted lips.
“And when I opened the fridge…” He jerked away and stood, turning his back, crossing his arms tight over his chest.
The silence that settled in the small kitchen was broken only by the clock ticking noisily on the wall and the sounds of video battles slipping under the door.
“I told Branson,” Matt finally went on, his voice flat. “He made me see the department shrink, called her in on Christmas, for Christ’s sake, like it was some sort of emergency.” He stared at the ceiling, a short burst of humorless laughter spilling from his throat. “He looked at me like I needed a rubber room and a straightjacket. She says it’s post-traumatic stress. I never dealt with Brad.” Sheila’s face was unreadable. “But that isn’t it. She was there, I saw her. I swear to God I did.”
A Reason to Believe Page 2