Sheila didn’t say anything for a long time. Matt was certain he’d made a terrible mistake.
She dropped her fingers from her lips, and when she spoke, her voice was surprisingly calm, as if he hadn’t just said something which sounded insane.
“I believe you.”
He stared, stunned. Sheila was without question the most grounded person he knew. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been dubious, at least. “You do?”
She nodded.
He sat and leaned across the table, grabbing her hand in a hard grip. “I’ve never believed in this stuff,” he said, his throat tight. “You have no idea what it’s like to see something that so completely challenges everything you ever thought…”
“You’re right. I don’t. I’ve never seen it.” She paused. “But I know people who have.”
His heart beat faster. “Who?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Tell me.”
“Do you know who Dr. Leon Trenetti is?”
Matt frowned. “Isn’t he like…chief of cardiology or something?”
“Oncology,” Sheila corrected. “And one of the most level-headed, unemotional people I’ve ever met. I heard him tell a nurse once that he had a conversation with a patient—while their body was lying in the next room.”
Matt blinked. “Really?”
She nodded. “I know two other people, one an ER nurse and the other a hospice worker, who would swear on their lives they’ve seen deceased patients after they’ve died.” She squeezed his hand. “These are professional people, people who deal with death all of the time, and not at all the type you’d imagine given to hallucinations. It’s not as uncommon as you think. It just isn’t talked about much.”
“Well, my captain and the department shrink sure acted as if I’d grown a second head.” He rubbed his hand over his face.
“Branson’s an ass,” Sheila said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He’s been looking for reasons to give you a hard time ever since he found out about Brad. As for the shrink—” she shrugged, “—she’s just making assumptions based on what she knows.” She hesitated. “And she may not be entirely wrong about the fact you should have taken some time off after Brad.”
Matt stiffened and tried to pull his hand away, but Sheila wouldn’t let him.
“Don’t do that,” she scolded, tightening her grip. “I won’t nag, but maybe being off the job for a bit isn’t the worst idea ever. You have to at least admit your frustration with being stuck on desk duty for the last year hasn’t made any of this easier.” He grimaced but didn’t answer. “And as for this thing with seeing the little girl…” She paused, her eyes direct. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why, out of all the people in that house, she chose to appear to you?”
Matt paused. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Maybe you should.”
“You think she picked me?”
“I don’t know.”
“But that would indicate reasoning…” He remembered the bright blue eyes, so wide, so intense. They’d been quick with intelligence, and the recollection sent a chill down his spine. “Christ, this is too weird. I’m out of my depth here.”
“It’s just unfamiliar subject matter.” She lifted her chin and arched her brows in challenge. “You’re a detective, aren’t you? So do what detectives do. Check it out.”
“What?” he said sarcastically. “Go to a séance? See a medium?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. But first, I’d suggest you keep an open mind. You saw a ghost this morning, my friend. Perhaps you shouldn’t be knocking the professionals.”
Chapter Three
Matt arrived home near midnight. He fell into bed, so exhausted he managed little more than to drop his pants and shoes on the floor, certain he’d be asleep almost instantly. But the moment he turned out the lights and closed his eyes, a startlingly clear vision of Abby Reynolds’ face popped into his mind. Not the bluish, battered face of the dead child in the refrigerator, but the one he’d seen first, pale but animated, blue eyes wide, staring. It was so clear he actually sat straight up in bed, his heart pounding as he peered around his darkened room. The air felt thick, and for just a moment he could have sworn he heard a wisp of the lively giggle.
Throwing back the blankets, he shot from bed and went into the living room. He pulled an afghan over his legs, shivering as he resolutely used the remote to flip through infomercials and B movies until dawn began to lighten the sheers at the windows. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but the ache in his neck when he wakened told him his head had been resting at an awkward angle. He reached for his nape and winced just as his cell phone rang.
Picking it up, he looked at the screen, frowning. He had three missed calls, and if he didn’t answer, she’d just keep calling until he did. He punched a button with an exasperated sigh.
“What?” he said, his voice rough.
“Nice, Matthew. Where have you been?”
“What’s with the third degree? I was asleep.”
“Well, wake up and get dressed. I’m on my way over.”
“Sheila.”
“Ten minutes,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken, her voice clipped. “Don’t make me come in there and dress you myself.”
“Sheila,” he said again more insistently, but it was no use. She’d hung up. “Son of a bitch!” He tossed the phone onto the table as he called his brother’s wife several unflattering names. But he pushed himself up from the couch and shuffled into the bedroom to get dressed.
He was standing in his kitchen wearing jeans and a cable-knit sweater, waiting for a pot of coffee to finish brewing, when the front door of his house opened. Cursing the impulse that had prompted him to give Sheila a key, he reached into a cupboard for a mug.
“Matthew?”
He pursed his lips as he filled his cup. “Kitchen,” he called, reaching into his fridge for milk and adding a splash to his coffee.
Sheila appeared in the doorway dressed in wool slacks, high-heeled boots and a leather jacket with a fur collar, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. She looked him up and down quickly, her brow furrowing.
“Nice sweater, but you look like shit.” She shouldered him aside and reached into the cupboard for a mug of her own. “What, no sleep?”
“You’re a pain in my ass. And none of your damned business.”
She smirked as she filled her cup. She took a sip and grimaced. “Christ, did you put the whole bag in? This is so strong you could walk on it.”
“If you don’t like it, you know where the door is. Go to Starbucks.”
She sent him a wry look. “My, we’re charming this morning.”
“We’re wondering what you’re doing here. And why the hell we felt the need to get dressed just because you said so.”
“Because you love me.” She touched his chin. “Although you could have shaved.” He batted her hand away.
“Don’t press your luck.” He studied her self-satisfied expression, trying to stay irritated but failing. “So, why am I dressed?” he asked in resignation.
Her smile filled her eyes with warmth. “Because we’re going out, and as fetching as I’m sure you looked in your jammies, you might have been cold.”
“Going out, where?”
She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a bright green piece of paper. It was folded several times.
Matt read it and shot her an incredulous look. “‘A Paranormal Gathering?’ Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m not,” she said primly. “And you really need to do something about that potty mouth of yours.”
“‘A Paranormal Gathering,’” he repeated, ignoring her scolding as he read the rest of the flyer aloud
. “‘Come and join us in an exploration of the afterlife with renowned medium Kiernan Fitzpatrick.’” He looked up at her. “Kiernan Fitzpatrick? What the hell kind of name is that?”
“Irish. And for your information, this thing was sold out months ago. I practically had to auction off my firstborn to get us two tickets.”
“Well, tempting as it occasionally might be to sell Kyle, you should get your money back. I’m not going.” He tossed the flyer onto the counter with an air of finality and reclaimed his coffee mug.
Instead of responding immediately, which was what he expected, she took another sip of her coffee, looking thoughtful. “I thought we agreed last night that maybe the right thing to do was talk to an expert.” Her voice was neutral.
Matt’s lip curled. “Oh, like ‘renowned medium’ Paddy O’Malley? A man who advertises on a chartreuse green flyer?”
“His name,” Sheila said with a pointed look, “is Kiernan Fitzpatrick, and I doubt he picked out the card stock personally. You might not have ever heard of him before, but I have.”
“Where?”
“He has a television show, something you might know if you ever watched anything other than Sports Center. What kind of gay man are you, anyway? We get Logo here, you know.”
He snorted.
“His show is pretty popular. And he’s actually kind of amazing.”
“At what? Communing with the dead? Give me a break.”
“I’ve seen the show,” she went on earnestly. “Several times. I’ve seen the people he’s done readings for. I don’t believe he’s a fake. He’s astonishingly accurate.” She set her cup aside and crossed her arms, mirroring his posture. “He’s also worked with a number of police departments on unsolved murders.”
“What police departments?” he asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.
“Boston, for one. And Seattle.”
He pursed his lips. “Boston and Seattle both hired this guy as a consultant.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”
“Actually, I think he was hired by the victims’ families.” She lifted her chin obstinately.
“Did he find the killers?”
She hesitated. “No.”
“See?” His smirk was smug. “He’s a fake.”
“But,” she said, her face clearly showing her irritation, “he did find the location of two bodies. Bodies of kids. Missing children, who would have stayed listed that way if he hadn’t found them. At least now there’s a chance to bring their killers to justice. Think of the parents of those missing kids. At least now they have closure.”
“Closure is psycho-babble crap.” His voice was tight. “There is no closure for the families of murder victims. Other people say that in order to make themselves feel better. And I’m surprised he didn’t get arrested for the murders himself. Knowing where the bodies are buried is usually the domain of the bad guys.”
“God, you’re such a damned hardhead,” Sheila burst out. “He didn’t get arrested because he was hundreds of miles away at the time of the murders. And what is it going to hurt to just go and listen to this guy?”
“What the hell for? I don’t buy into this shit, Sheila. You know that.”
“Says the man who saw a ghost yesterday.”
Matt glared but didn’t retaliate, and heavy silence settled in the space between them.
Sheila sighed, propping her hands on her hips. “Look, he’s in town for a symposium at the university. He’s only doing one public session, today at the Hilton. It will probably last all of about three hours. He does readings from the audience. It’s all completely random. Odds are he won’t pick you. But he really is fascinating. What can it hurt to just go and listen to him?” She paused, her eyes imploring. “Please. I’d like to hear what he has to say. Come with me. You just might learn something.”
He made a scoffing sound in his throat. “It’s more likely you’ll have wasted your money. How much did this thing cost, anyway?”
She grimaced. “Enough we aren’t telling your brother about it. As far as he knows, I’m taking you to lunch.”
Matt’s lips twisted as he felt his resistance wavering. “Oh, you’re taking me to lunch all right. If you force me to sit through this crap, at least I get a steak out of it.”
* * *
Matt had been to the Hilton several times. He’d answered calls there and had a drink or two in the bar. The lobby was huge, with soaring modern lines and white travertine marble on the floors. Massive canvases of splashed colors impersonating modern art hung on the walls, and the brass chandeliers were comprised of hard lines and angles. The place felt cold, and he didn’t like it. His opinion was reinforced when he accompanied Sheila into one of the personality-free conference rooms and took a seat on one of two hundred mass-produced hotel chairs. The space smelled of burnt coffee and stale cigarette smoke.
The diversity of the crowd surprised him. He’d been expecting a sea of overweight middle-aged women in polyester pants. There were some of those, but there were also young professionals and older couples dressed in high-end designer clothes. While the crowd appeared to be pulled from all walks of life, they shared a commonality of expression. They looked earnest, impatient and anxious. With a sinking feeling in his chest, Matt realized exactly who they were.
One had only to have experienced loss to recognize it. They were the bereaved, almost all of them. Some were merely curious, but the majority were grieving. They’d lost someone near to them, someone important. It had brought them to the crowded ballroom in the hope that someone might be able to tell them it was all right, their loved one wasn’t gone forever, and death hadn’t been the end.
His eyes fixed on the twisted tissue in one older woman’s hand. When he looked up, he found her returning his gaze with a combination of fear and desperation, and it made him angry. Really, really angry.
He knew these people, had felt what they had. He’d had someone he loved taken from him. He knew the wound that opened in your soul and wouldn’t close, understood the pain of having something so perfect, so precious, just—end. He knew what it felt like to bleed internally for months, to pray and rage and bargain. He’d tried to reason with God, receiving only silence in return.
Doubting he could bear to remain while someone capitalized on the pain surrounding him, he leaned toward Sheila, who was leafing through the program they’d received at the door. He hadn’t even opened his, which sat abandoned on the floor between his feet.
“Sheila, I…”
The rest of the sentence was lost when a restive stirring started near the front of the room. It spread quickly through the crowd, followed almost instantly by an expectant hush. Sheila shushed him, lifting her chin and leaning forward. Matt sighed heavily and settled into his chair.
A young woman came to stand before a microphone on the elevated platform at the front of the room. She studied the crowd impassively and seemed content to wait until she had everyone’s attention. She was pretty and petite, with fair skin and waist-length hair so dark it was nearly black. Her eyes were wide and light-colored, probably blue, and she was wearing skin-tight jeans and a Bon Jovi T-shirt. With dark liner around her eyes and black nail polish on her nails, she certainly didn’t resemble anyone who might be there in a professional capacity. The room settled into expectant silence.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to go over some ground rules before we begin.” Her voice was surprisingly husky but friendly. “There will be no photography allowed during the session. Kiernan finds it distracting, and if you are found in the possession of a camera or a camera phone, I’m afraid security will take it from you. Same goes for recording equipment of any kind. If you’d like to purchase a DVD of this session, those will be made available on our web page at a later date.”
“When he can make sure he gets the profits,” Matt grumbled.
The young woman up front sent him an amused look, as if she knew exactly what he’d said. “You should know going in that Kiernan does not control these sessions,” she went on. “The departed who appear to him do.”
Matt managed to refrain from rolling his eyes.
“In light of this, please do not raise your hand unless something he says sounds as if he might be referring to your loved one. He has no idea how many spirits, if any, will appear, but he will try to speak for as many as he can. Because of time constraints, he does not do private readings as a result of these open meetings. If you’d like a private consultation, you can make arrangements at his website, www.spirits_speak.com. All right?” She looked around the room expectantly. When no one raised their hand, she gave a faint smile.
“So what is she, his handler?” Matt murmured. Sheila responded by shushing him.
“Now that the business is out of the way…” The woman paused and glanced toward a curtained area, waiting for something. Apparently she saw it and turned back to the crowd. “It’s my pleasure to introduce Kiernan Fitzpatrick!”
The reaction was enthusiastic but polite. No whistles or catcalls, just an extended round of applause as the young woman left the platform. It continued even as the stage remained empty when she disappeared behind the curtain.
Matt did not join in. If he thought Sheila wouldn’t nag him for the next five years, he’d have simply left and taken a cab home. But she’d never forgive him, and while he wasn’t really afraid of her wrath, he didn’t want to deal with it either. So he sat and he waited, his mouth twisted sardonically to one side.
Abruptly, a young man bounded from behind the curtain. The applause swelled, and Matt was sure there’d been a mistake. This was the famous medium? Was it some kind of a joke? But Sheila was smiling and applauding with the rest of them.
A Reason to Believe Page 3