A Reason to Believe

by Diana Copland

  If Kiernan Fitzpatrick was five foot eight, Matt would have been surprised. He moved with athletic grace, and Matt couldn’t help but admire his physique. He had a lithe, solid build under his tattered Levi’s and fitted hoodie, and his shoulders were square and his thighs muscled. He was handsome, too. Thick, messy black hair was short on the sides and along his nape, slightly longer over his forehead, and his face was angular and fine-boned. His complexion was fair, smooth and unlined, but a bluish shadow darkened his square chin, indicating the presence of a heavy beard. It was the only sign he wasn’t a teenager, but Matt doubted he was more than twenty. The medium’s most striking feature was his eyes. Huge and so blue that even twenty-five rows back, Matt could see the color.

  He nudged Sheila’s arm. “He’s a kid.”

  “He’s twenty-seven, which you’d know if you’d read the program.”

  Fitzpatrick jogged up the steps to the small stage, the applause still ringing when he stopped in front of the microphone. He looked around the room, grinning impishly and rubbing the palms of his hands on the denim covering his thighs, bouncing on his toes as if he was brimming with excess energy and couldn’t contain it.

  An indentation appeared near the left corner of his lips, which made him look younger still, and he reached up absently and unzipped his hoodie. Underneath it he wore a white T-shirt with black printing. It read I’m Not Short, I’m Fun-sized.

  Sheila laughed and angled her head toward Matt. “Admit it,” she said as the applause went on. “He’s adorable.”

  Matt didn’t comment, but he didn’t deny it, either. The guy was attractive. So what?

  “Hello,” Fitzpatrick said finally, his voice surprisingly deep. “I’m Kiernan.”

  A smattering of applause met the announcement, and Matt could swear he saw a blush spread across the high cheekbones.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t get too excited yet,” Fitzpatrick said with a self-deprecating laugh. There were scattered chuckles. “Let’s see how this goes before you commit yourselves.” The smile that spread over his face in response to the renewed laughter was very appealing. He squared his shoulders, hooking his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “I should tell you I’m never sure how these things are going to go. Sometimes, there are dozens just waiting for the chance to talk. Other times, I’m lucky if one or two show up.” He shrugged. “It’s entirely up to them, and sometimes they aren’t terribly cooperative. And yes, that is the disclaimer.”

  Amused, the people in the room began to relax.

  “It can be frustrating, but they like to remind me I’m just the mouthpiece. Now, I have this—little ritual I perform, before I begin. I say a prayer for guidance and for protection, because it’s always a good idea to include some credit for the higher power. If you’ll bear with me, it just takes a couple of seconds.”

  Fitzpatrick lowered his head and closed his eyes, and the room was so silent you could hear each shift of weight on a hard chair. He brought his hands up in front of his chest, rubbing the palms together briskly. Matt noticed the long, slender fingers and the fine bones.

  Fitzpatrick’s mouth moved, silently forming words. He made the sign of the cross over his chest in a gesture so practiced he could only be a lifelong Catholic, and Matt’s brows shot up. He certainly hadn’t expected that.

  “Okay,” Fitzpatrick said, looking quickly around the room. “It’s a big group. Like, a convention. I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of mediums through these parts.” This time the scattered giggles sounded anticipatory. “Yes, I see you,” he went on, clearly having a conversation with someone or something no one else could see. “Chill. I’ll get to you.”

  He went still, his eyes fixed on a spot toward the front of the crowd, yet above their heads. A frown of concentration formed between his dark brows, but his eyes were bright, his expression animated.

  “I’m getting…some kind of precious stone,” he said finally, his voice gathering strength. “Like an opal, or a garnet.” He shook his head. “No, that isn’t right.” He paused, his eyes brightening. “Oh, it’s a pearl. But it isn’t the stone, it’s a name. Something Pearl. Ginny? Virginia?” He paused, waiting for an answer. “Oh, seriously?” He looked startled. “That’s a name? You’re sure? Well, I guess that is a dumb question.” He laughed. “You’d know. The name she’s giving me is Virgilia,” he said, his eyes dropping back to the expectant faces. “Virgilia Pearl.” Someone in the crowd gasped, and he sought the source of the sound. “It’s actually Virgilia Pearl?”

  An older woman sitting not far to Matt’s right thrust her hand into the air.

  Fitzpatrick pointed at her. “Please stand,” he said, his smile encouraging. “Someone in your family got hung with that name?” There was more laughter.

  “Yes,” she answered breathlessly, her eyes wide with excitement. “My—”

  “Please don’t tell me,” he interrupted her gently. “Let her do it.”

  The woman nodded, her hands clasped in front of her.

  He went still again, his eyes bright, clearly listening. “She’s a parental figure, right? This was your mother?”

  The woman nodded again. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  “She died suddenly, yeah? She’s showing me something with her head. Like, there was a moment of excruciating pain, and—” he snapped his fingers, “—she was gone.”

  Her hands were trembling visibly. “An aneurysm ruptured in her brain.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Fitzpatrick said with sympathy that seemed genuine, and he smiled slowly. “She was a kick, wasn’t she?”

  She smiled through her tears and nodded.

  Fitzpatrick’s grin widened. “She’s showing me a dog. A collie. Does that mean something to you?” Again, she nodded. “She’s got the dog with her. It had kind of an unusual name…” His eyes widened in surprise and he laughed. It was an engaging sound. “The dog’s name was Guinness? She’s showing me a pint.”

  There was more laughter from the crowd as she nodded. “My dad named him.”

  “Excellent. All animals should be named after beer.” Fitzpatrick’s face sobered gradually. “She knows you’ve been having a hard time with this.”

  Tears began to slip silently down her cheeks.

  “She’s not been gone very long. Just this fall, right?” Again, a nod answered the question. “It isn’t very long at all. You’re entitled to grieve for her. Losing your mum is hard.” The sympathy in his eyes was unmistakable, and she responded to it with a watery sniff. “But she wants you to know she’s fine. No more arthritis, no more asthma.” His blue eyes brightened with humor. “She says to tell you she’s got her dancing shoes on again. Grandma could cut a rug, huh?”

  The woman laughed even as she brought a tissue to her lips.

  “But the main thing you should know—” Fitzpatrick went on with disarming gentleness, “—is she isn’t really gone. She knows exactly what’s happening here. And she thinks you did a fine job with the way you handled everything.” He paused. “She knows your brother…well, forgive me for my bluntness, but he’s kind of a prick. Never fails. There’s one in every family. She says to tell you—you did the right thing. He’d have just blown through it. And she’s proud of you.” Fitzpatrick paused, his eyes growing distant. “She’s stepping back now.” His eyes regained focus as he smiled. “Your mother is cool.”

  “Yes,” she said with a grateful smile. “Yes she…is. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  Applause rippled through the room as she sank into her chair.

  Sheila turned her head and pinned Matt with a look. “See?” she said, her voice pitched for his ears alone. “He’s amazing. I told you.”

  “He’s something.” He still wasn’t buying it.

  Fitzpatrick’s eyes darted around the room again. After a moment he stilled, his head angled to
one side. “I’ve got…a soccer ball,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “And a T name. Taylor, Travis…no, wait. There’s more than one, but I’m only getting one name.” He looked confused, his mouth slightly open. “Tavandish?”

  Sheila made a startled sound. Matt straightened in his chair.

  “Tavandish,” he repeated, looking mystified. “I don’t get it.” A hand inched up hesitantly just in front of where they were seated. Fitzpatrick fixed the man with a look. “Do you understand this?”

  “Possibly,” the man answered, his voice muted.

  “Okay. Please, stand up.”

  The man did, his hands grasped at his back. His knuckles were white. Fitzpatrick looked at him, then just to his left. “Okay, I’m getting…someone younger. He’s just to your right. His name starts with a C.”

  The man nodded stiffly.

  “Chet?” Again there was a stiff, responding nod. “Okay,” Fitzpatrick said, still looking mystified. “But he isn’t alone, and he keeps saying ‘Tavandish.’ Tavandish…oh, wait. Is it the name of a school?”

  A murmur traveled through the crowd.

  The blue eyes were wide as they studied the man standing before him. “It’s the name of a private school.” Again, the man nodded. “Oh.” Fitzpatrick’s voice softened and his face saddened as he looked slowly left to right, as if scanning a small crowd. “That’s why there are so many of you. You were a sports team. That explains the uniforms.” A woman not far from Matt made a broken sound. Fitzpatrick looked back at his audience. “How many of you are attached to the name Tavandish?”

  A startled mutter moved through the room as the two rows directly in front of Sheila and Matt, fully twenty people, rose to their feet. Kiernan Fitzpatrick took them in with somber eyes filled with sudden, weary understanding and aching compassion.

  “Oh,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry…”

  * * *

  “He knew about the bus crash,” Sheila argued softly. They were still seated as the animated crowd filed from the room.

  “So did anyone in a five-state area who can read a newspaper,” Matt countered. He’d slouched down in his seat. “Twenty-two kids from an expensive private school, killed in a crash? That’s big news. Don’t tell me someone couldn’t have done some research. And here’s this guy, offering an opportunity to speak to dead loved ones. You don’t think it likely some of those poor people are going to turn up?”

  “He knew their names. He knew how old they were.”

  “All of which appeared in the news reports. Give me a break. He’s good, I’ll give him that. Quite the performer.”

  “My God, you are so fucking stubborn. Even if someone had done their research, how could he know which parents would be here? They weren’t all here.”

  He shrugged. “Some of it has to be guesswork.”

  “Okay, smart guy. Explain pulling the name Virgilia out of the air for me, will you?”

  “Obits.”

  She eyed him balefully. “Obits. Like someone was checking back for months, reading the local obits, because they were coming to this town.”

  “You think the idea some dead person only he can see was talking to him more likely?”

  “I seem to remember you telling me a little story just yesterday…”

  “Excuse me,” a soft voice said behind them, but Matt was so irritated at Sheila he didn’t pay attention.

  “Listen, don’t make me sorry I told you.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t, if you’d stop being so damned mule-headed for one second…”

  “Excuse me,” the voice came again, more insistently. “Detective?”

  Matt stiffened. Sheila looked over his shoulder, her eyes going so wide a slender rim of white appeared around the hazel irises. Matt sat up and turned his head quickly.

  The young woman who had introduced Fitzpatrick was standing behind them, her expression impassive, but Matt could see amusement in her eyes.

  “You are a police officer. A detective, right?” Her voice was studiously polite.

  Matt frowned slightly. “I…yeah.”

  “He’d like to speak with you, if you have a moment.”

  “He…who?”

  The young woman smiled at him even as Sheila nudged him with her elbow. “Of course, he’ll speak to him,” she answered, ignoring the look Matt shot her way.

  The dark-haired woman nodded. “He’ll come out here, but we’re going to wait until the rest of the room has cleared. All right?”

  Sheila nodded again and the girl turned and quickly walked away, dark hair swinging.

  “Why in the world would I want to talk to him?” Matt muttered. “I think he’s a damned fake.”

  Sheila pursed her lips. “Is that right…Detective?” she asked pointedly.

  Matt frowned. Okay, it was a bit odd. At no point in the afternoon had he done or said anything to identify himself as a police officer. It was just enough to pique his curiosity.

  It took another five minutes for the room to finally clear. When Kiernan Fitzpatrick stepped through the curtain, Matt found himself rising to his feet as he approached.

  There was something undeniably appealing about Fitzpatrick. His coloring was vivid and striking, and the body hinted at beneath his casual clothes looked trim and muscular. Unconsciously, Matt’s eyes moved over his form, pausing at the decent-sized soft bulge at his groin before he realized what he was doing. Startled, he forced his eyes back to Fitzpatrick’s face. It was the first time he’d looked at a man in assessment in…well, in as long as he could remember. It was an uncomfortable realization.

  Matt was just over six feet tall, with a slender, muscular build. He’d never considered himself a large man, but when the medium stopped directly in front of him and offered his hand, Matt felt large by comparison. It was interesting, however, that Fitzpatrick’s shorter stature didn’t diminish him. His gaze was direct, his handshake firm. Matt found himself reluctantly fascinated by a few subtly silver strands in his hair and captivated by the intense blue of his eyes.

  “Thanks for staying,” Fitzpatrick said, still holding Matt’s hand. “I’m guessing it was a surprise.” His eyes were shining, as if he were holding in laughter.

  Matt pulled his hand back and slipped it into his back pocket. “A bit, yeah. How did you know I’m a cop?”

  Fitzpatrick’s grin widened. “In a way you think is complete and utter crap.”

  The young woman, who seemed to be some sort of assistant, stepped up to Fitzpatrick’s side. She tapped the face of her wristwatch meaningfully.

  Fitzpatrick rolled his eyes and turned back to Matt. “Listen, I have this thing I have to do, and then I have a private reading back here at nine. Could you maybe come back to the hotel about ten-thirty? I know it sounds weird, but I got something during the session I think might be valuable to you. I’m in Room 1411.”

  His eyes were so intense that Matt found himself staring for a moment before he cleared his throat. “You ‘got something’…about what?”

  Fitzpatrick’s gaze remained fixed on his eyes. “You’re involved with a murder investigation, am I right? Involving a little girl?”

  A frisson of what felt like electricity slipped the length of Matt’s spine.

  “I don’t have time to go into it now, but if you’ll come back later…” Fitzpatrick looked hopeful, and Matt surprised himself by nodding. “Good.” The smile that lit the handsome face was bright and Matt could only stare, startled again by a wave of purely physical awareness.

  Fitzpatrick turned to leave, then stopped and looked back, a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, she did tell me she’s sorry if she kept you awake.” He shrugged, his grin infectious. “She likes you.”

  He walked away, leaving Matt to stare after him in bemusement. His eyes dropped involuntarily to a muscular ass en
cased in snug denim. He straightened when he felt Sheila nudge his arm.

  “Still think he’s a fake?” she asked, her mouth curved in a smug line. “And why, yes, he does have a very nice ass.”

  Chapter Four

  “What do you mean, you aren’t going back?” Sheila said when they stopped at Starbucks for coffee.

  “Just what I said.” Matt paid the barista behind the counter and dropped his change in the tip jar. The tall Americano felt warm in his hand and he was craving the caffeine. His long night was catching up with him. He was exhausted.

  “I can’t believe you.” Sheila flopped into one of the armchairs in the corner of the dimly lit coffee shop. “You’re going to sit there and tell me you are not even remotely curious about what he wants to tell you.”

  He took a chair across from her and sipped his coffee, sighing in appreciation as the rich, faintly bitter flavor spread over his tongue. “What could he possibly know that he didn’t get from the news?”

  “Well, let’s see. I’m guessing he didn’t get the fact you didn’t sleep worth a damn last night because a ghost followed you home from channel five.”

  “Will you keep your voice down? I’d just as soon not let everyone know I’m having a nervous breakdown. If we can keep it in the family…”

  Sheila looked at him through long lashes, but she did lower her voice. “An opportunity to be a sarcastic ass notwithstanding, you cannot tell me you still believe he’s a fake. I know you too well.” She kicked him under the table. “Don’t decide you aren’t going back just because you find him attractive.”

  Matt scowled. “That isn’t it.”

  “The hell,” she shot back, her expression knowing. “You’re allowed to find the man good-looking. Especially when he looks like that.” Her eyes softened. “Besides, I saw your face when he told you she likes you.”

  Matt lowered his eyes to his cup. The comment had hit close to home. Cases with kids were always the worst, because the truth was he liked children. He hadn’t realized when he’d first made detective how many of the victims would be children, and those cases always haunted him. Their eyes stayed with him after. But Abby Reynolds—he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to shake her. Of course, he’d never thought the ghost of one of those kids would turn up in his bedroom, either.