A Reason to Believe

by Diana Copland

  Kiernan cried out and pushed back, rocking into each thrust. Everything became a fearsome, desperate drive to the finish. The sight of Kiernan’s head thrown back urged Matt to lick the exposed tendon connecting throat to shoulder. He reached up to grip the headboard. Sounds filled his ears—his own loud, fast breathing, Kiernan’s moans and sharp cries, the squeak of the bed frame and the thump as it bounced rhythmically against the wall.

  But crowding out all the rest was the heat of Kiernan’s body, tight around him, and the taut ass arched back to meet each thrust, pushing against Matt’s pubic bone. When the grip went almost painfully tight around him, and Kiernan managed, “Matt, I…I’m gonna…” everything tunneled down to a rush of pleasure. Heat streaked down Matt’s spine, and he pushed Kiernan facedown into the pillows and fucked him, rhythm lost, grace abandoned, as he gripped both hard shoulders in his hands and lost his mind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Matt had never blacked out during an orgasm before. But it was the only explanation for coming back to awareness to the sound their breathing, labored and irregular, and the feel of slick, shuddering muscle beneath him. After a few minutes Kiernan shifted, and Matt fought for the presence of mind to withdraw carefully before falling onto his back at Kiernan’s side. It was a while before he trusted his voice.

  “That was—” Matt stopped, no idea what to say.

  “Yeah, it was.” A hand groped his wrist and slippery fingers linked with his. “Matt?”

  Laboriously, Matt managed to turn his head. He found Kiernan looking at him, his face flushed and his eyes bright.

  “Yeah?”

  “Now, I’m hungry.”

  Matt was surprised he had the strength left to laugh.

  Midnight snacks consisted of a huge bowl of ice cream for Kiernan and a beer and pretzels for Matt, sitting side by side on the sofa in their underwear, watching the late-night version of Sports Center on ESPN. Kiernan’s eyes were avid on the screen and he made comments about the hockey scores and the possibility of the Jets making the play-offs, all of which Matt replied to with what he hoped were sounds demonstrating he was paying attention, even as his mind was in turmoil.

  He’d never been a saint. Before he’d met Brad, he’d fucked around. A lot. And he’d never felt particularly apologetic about the fact. Brad had known who he was, and who he’d been. In fact, it had been something of a joke between them. Brad preened in a very good-natured way about how he’d reformed a self-described man-whore. And Matt had smiled at him benignly, frankly surprised to find he’d never felt the urge to stray, not even once, while they’d been together. He could freely acknowledge love had made amazing changes in him.

  But he also hadn’t felt the need to get back out there since Brad had been gone, either. Until Kiernan, he hadn’t seen anyone who’d piqued his interest in a year and a half. He wondered if it was the return of his sex drive, so quickly and forcefully, that had him feeling unsettled, or if even now he felt he was cheating on Brad. Whatever it was, as they sat side by side on the sofa, his post-orgasm euphoria faded.

  By the time they turned off the television and headed for the bedroom, his answers to Kiernan’s questions had descended to inarticulate grunts and he was avoiding eye contact.

  Back in bed, he was lying on his back staring up into the darkness when Kiernan rolled onto his side, facing him. Matt could feel his eyes on his profile. The silence between them was thick.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know,” Kiernan murmured.

  Matt frowned. “I know that,” he said shortly.

  “Do you? Because you act like a man with a guilty conscience.”

  Irritation flared, but he couldn’t blame Kiernan for what even he could see was an irrational reaction. He swallowed. “I know it doesn’t make any sense—”

  “It makes all sorts of sense,” Kiernan countered. “I’m the first since Brad, right?”

  Matt closed his eyes and nodded. Kiernan stroked his hand gently down the center of his chest.

  “Well, I’m honored. If you didn’t feel you were somehow being unfaithful to him, I’d wonder about you. But you have to believe me when I tell you, those who go on don’t begrudge those they leave behind finding happiness with someone else.” After a pause, Kiernan chuckled uncomfortably. “Not that we’re getting married next week or anything. Besides, knowing you and what a big bad cop you are, you’d want to be the groom. I’ll tell you right now I’d look lousy in a flounced organza hoop skirt. Although one of those little short veil things—what do they call them? fascinators?—might be really fetching on my hair.”

  Matt hooked his arm around Kiernan’s neck, pulling him close. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told,” Kiernan said with a long-suffering sigh.

  But Matt’s heart was lightened, and he drifted off to sleep with the feeling of a soft kiss pressed to his sternum, and the reassuring heaviness of Kiernan’s head on his shoulder.

  * * *

  “Okay, so,” Kiernan said the next morning. “Where are we going?”

  Matt paused, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “The library, for one. But wherever we go, we have to stick to public spaces, and be back in the house before dark.”

  “Why?”

  “Crowds and light. Both things which discourage assassination attempts.” His eyes hardened. “And you will go where I say, when I say, got it?”

  Kiernan raised his hands, palm out in supplication. “Like I’m going to argue with the police.”

  “At the public library they have the newspapers for the last hundred years archived. I thought we could go through the society pages, check names against the ones on the guest list from the Reynolds.”

  “It’s a place to start.”

  “It’s doesn’t feel like much,” Matt admitted. “But I figure if Abby is tossing the newspaper at my head, then maybe—”

  His words were interrupted by a sudden explosion of sound from the living room. It sounded like the television was on but the cable wasn’t connected, all white noise, blaring at full volume. They both rushed for the living room.

  Matt stopped in the doorway and stared, stunned. It looked as if every piece of paper in the house was airborne, flying around the living room in a whirlwind. Full pages of newsprint flew past, scraps, Post-it Notes. Bills that had been stacked neatly on a table against the wall were ripped from their envelopes as they spun by. The pages of magazines stacked on the coffee table flipped madly and moved in place, as if they too were trying to lift and join the small cyclone in the middle of the room. Kiernan gripped his wrist but Matt’s eyes remained glued to the chaos that, moments before, had been his living room.

  “Abby,” Kiernan said, taking a step forward into the room. “Abby, we’re trying.”

  He started to go further, but Matt grabbed his arm, holding him back. Kiernan looked at him, his expression reassuring, but Matt wasn’t willing to let him walk into the middle of the maelstrom.

  Suddenly, the television went from static to channels, flipping through them, slowly at first, with growing speed until the words were just another form of white noise. The channels went by so quickly the images were a blur, flickering like an insane strobe light.

  “Abby,” Kiernan said more firmly, raising his voice and taking a step forward. “Did your mom let you throw tantrums like this, because I can promise you, I’m not impressed.”

  His words didn’t seem to make an impression. The madness went on. Matt took a step into the fray.

  “Abigail! We’re doing the best we can. Knock it off!”

  Instantly, the papers dropped straight down, the wind funnel fading into nothing. The television continued to race through the channels, but the volume faded to a tolerable level. Just as Matt reached for the remote to turn it off, it stopped on the local mor
ning news.

  “Just to recap this breaking story,” the anchorwoman was saying. “After several days of speculation and in response to an arrest warrant, prominent local attorney Marc Reynolds has surrendered himself into the custody of local law enforcement in connection with the Christmas Eve murder of his six-year-old daughter, Abigail, at the family’s home in the exclusive North Park area.”

  Matt heard Kiernan catch his breath, and stared at the television, his heart sinking.

  “Assistant District Attorney Garrett Preston tells us a grand jury will be convened immediately following the new year to hear testimony he’s certain will lead to a formal indictment. Tune in to our regular newscast at five for further details on this breaking story.”

  The television shut off, plunging the room into silence.

  Matt saw his own dismay mirrored on Kiernan’s face. Then, so softly at first he wasn’t certain he actually heard it, whimpering began. Matt’s throat tightened. It was such a lost, mournful sound.

  “Abby,” he said softly.

  The weeping rose slightly in volume, turned to pitiful, hiccupping sobs that tore at him.

  Kiernan reached out, arms open as if to embrace the invisible child. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry. But you can’t give up. We won’t give up. I promise.”

  The crying faded away.

  * * *

  Matt was on hold, and had been for almost twelve minutes. Long enough to hear “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” and “Silver Bells.” He grimaced when “Jingle Bell Rock” started.

  He’d thought about calling Ed’s cell, but it would be easier for Ed to cover the fact he was talking to Matt if the call came in through the switchboard. Ed had been pulling Sundays with Matt for nearly a year, so he knew he’d be in the squad room. The operator hadn’t recognized his voice, which he’d counted on. Matt would do everything in his power not to get Ed in trouble, but he had to talk to him. Something was off about the arrest. He knew it.

  “They didn’t have enough evidence,” Matt said to Kiernan, who was carefully picking up paper from the floor. “Nothing concrete. The only reason they were looking at him at all is because you eliminate the parents first. Ed told me ADA. Preston was hot for an indictment, but he also said—” The music abruptly stopped on the other end of the line.

  “Partridge.”

  “Ed, this is Matt Bennett,” he said quickly. “I know you aren’t supposed to be talking to me.”

  There was a pause.

  “That would be correct,” Ed answered in a mild tone.

  “And I don’t want to jam you up.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “But I need some information.”

  There was another pause. “Could you hold for one minute, please?”

  Matt heard a click in his ear, returning him to tinny Christmas music.

  “What did he say?” Kiernan asked.

  “He put me on hold.”

  “Hey, at least he didn’t hang up in your ear.”

  “True.” Matt slumped back into the sofa, determined to wait. But as more time ticked by and Ed didn’t return, Matt started to think he’d been brushed off. He waited ten minutes and was about to hang up when the line clicked again.

  “Listen, I can’t talk for long,” Ed said, his voice hushed. “The entire department has been given very clear instructions not to speak to you, but—I’ve been a cop too damned long, Matt. Something about this whole thing stinks to high heaven.”

  Matt sat up, feeling Kiernan’s eyes on him. “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t discuss it here, and I’d rather not do it on my cell.” His voice dropped even further. “Cell records leave a paper trail, and if there’s any kind of an internal investigation, they’ll subpoena them.”

  “Ed, I meant what I said. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

  “I believe you.” There was a pause, and Matt wondered if the man on the other end was glancing around to make certain he wasn’t being observed. “I just think you might actually have more luck with this than we will at the moment.”

  “You’re being stonewalled,” Matt muttered.

  “Shut down, more like.”

  “By Branson, or higher up?”

  “Both. Listen, I can’t do this here—”

  “What if I could meet you?”

  “Fine. One-fifteen, the Lighthouse Coffee at Riverside and Seventh.”

  “I’ll be there,” Matt said, but the phone had already gone dead in his hand.

  Lighthouse Coffee was a locally owned business started in an effort to battle the trend toward a Starbucks on every corner. The large shop at Riverside and Seventh was the company’s flagship store. Housed in a gutted and restored turn-of-the-century flour mill, the walls were exposed red brick, and a huge grindstone reincarnated as a fountain turned ponderously in the middle of the cavernous space. Vaulted ceilings soared three stories to exposed beams above, and the original flagstone floors had been polished to a high sheen. A fireplace dominated one wall, a wood-burning fire roaring on the hearth. The scent of brewing coffee permeated the air.

  The building was located right in the middle of the newly renovated Old Town district, surrounded by boutiques and upscale restaurants, and as far from the precinct where Matt worked as was possible and still remain inside the city limits. A few locals sat at the tables, swathed in winter wear, but Kiernan seemed something of a big-city anomaly in his fitted jeans, black leather jacket and heeled boots. Of course, underneath the snappy jacket he was wearing a neatly tucked-in T-shirt with a picture of a pretty little horse on it that read Screw World Peace. I Want a Pony.

  For his part, Matt looked at home in his khakis and bulky sheep’s wool-lined denim coat. He’d worn it partly because it covered the lines of his harness and service revolver. When he’d taken it out of the safe, Kiernan’s eyes had lingered even as he’d teased Matt about his big gun. He didn’t need to be told why Matt was wearing it.

  The subtle reminder seemed to subdue his mood. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet as they’d driven into town.

  They removed their gloves and scarves on entering, ordered coffee at the counter and then settled at a corner table to wait. At precisely one-fifteen, the bell above the door jingled merrily and Ed Partridge entered. He saw Matt in the corner and acknowledged him with a guarded glance before going to the counter.

  “Very friendly,” Kiernan said under his breath, moving to sit in the wooden chair at Matt’s side and freeing up the other side of the table.

  “He’s a good guy,” Matt countered. “If anyone finds out about this, it could really cause him a problem. You might want to—”

  “—let you do the talking? I figured. I’ll just sit here and keep my mouth shut.”

  “Thanks.” Matt touched the back of his hand fleetingly. Kiernan’s eyes warmed.

  Ed approached, coffee in hand, and sat at the table without taking off his coat. He looked tired. “Be nice if it would stop snowing, huh?” he grumbled, removing his gloves.

  “I think we’ve had about enough, yeah,” Matt said. “It’s good to see you, Ed.”

  Ed shot him a wry look. “I’ll bet.” He jerked his head toward Kiernan. “Care to introduce me?”

  “Sure. Ed Partridge, Kiernan Fitzpatrick.”

  Kiernan offered his hand. “Hi.”

  “The ghost guy?” Ed said, his gray brows arching.

  “Yup, that would be me,” Kiernan said. “Nice to meet you.”

  Ed stared at the offered hand for another moment before shaking it briefly and letting go equally fast. Kiernan’s glance at Matt was amused as he picked up his coffee.

  “I got to hear all about you.” Ed’s mouth twisted slightly. It was hard to tell if it was a smile or a grimace. “Branson had a litter of spaniels over
you taking this guy to the Reynolds’ house.”

  “That I would have liked to see,” Matt said, and now there was no mistaking Ed’s gruff smile.

  “Yeah, it was amusing. Having Commissioner Mitchell turn up on your behalf wasn’t a bad stunt, either. Rawlins blabbed all over the department. Branson looked like an idiot.” Ed’s grin widened. “Made my whole damned week.”

  Matt snorted. “There goes the promotion I was up for.”

  Ed chuckled. “Yeah, I’m guessing you won’t be getting detective of the year.”

  “He’s been after me for…a while.”

  “Eighteen months, to be exact.” Ed’s eyes were level as he took a sip of his coffee, and then set the cup carefully on the table. “You’ll also be lucky if the tabloid press doesn’t identify you from the clip on the news. You’ve got to know there are people who’d like nothing better than to…well…” He glanced meaningfully at Kiernan.

  “Out me.” Matt felt himself coloring as he glanced over at Kiernan. “I know.”

  Ed looked between the two men opposite him, his light eyes knowing. “Listen, what you do in your free time is none of my business. I didn’t care eighteen months ago, and I don’t care now. You’re a good cop, and you’ve always had my back. Just…be careful, yeah?”

  Matt nodded, warmth for his colleague growing. “I will, Ed. And when I said I didn’t want to jam you up…”

  Ed shook his head dismissively. “I’m a big boy, Bennett. Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.” He glanced over his shoulder before leaning in. “And when I said you might have more luck on the outside with this than we are, I meant it.”

  Matt mirrored his posture, his elbows on the table. “So what the hell happened?” he asked, his voice muted. “Last I heard they had nothing on Reynolds.”

  “Strange, that,” Ed said. “It remained the case, right up until yesterday.”

  “What happened yesterday?”

  Ed’s hands curled around his coffee cup. “Seems new evidence has come to light.”