A Reason to Believe (3 page)

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

come 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.

* * *

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