She took his hand in both of hers. They were cold even as her grip was firm. “I wish I could do more.”
Commissioner Mitchell joined them, taking her elbow gently, and Matt wondered how they knew one another. The elevator doors slid open, and the ride to the first floor was made in silence.
Sheila was sitting in one of the chairs in the first floor hallway, and she jumped to her feet when they appeared. “Matt, is everything…”
“Later, okay?” he said softly, glancing meaningfully toward Karen Reynolds. Sheila shot her a quick look, understanding, and fell into step behind them. They walked out onto the sidewalk beyond the main doors.
Karen paused and looked back at him. “I don’t want you to find yourself in even more difficulty because of me, but I was wondering…” She studied Matt’s face, her eyes anxious.
“If there’s anything I can do, Mrs. Reynolds, I will.”
Her expression could not be interpreted as a smile, but she tried. She opened her clutch purse and removed a thick piece of card stock, which she placed in Matt’s hands. He turned it over to read the front.
It was a small folder. On the cover was a lovely picture of a beautiful little girl with wide cornflower blue eyes and blond curls, holding a stuffed unicorn with a rainbow-striped horn. Beneath the photo were the words: A Celebration of the Life of Abigail Marie Reynolds, June 16, 2006 to December 25, 2012. Matt studied the picture, his heart sinking, and looked up into her mother’s sad eyes.
“The service is at noon,” she said softly. “I know Captain Branson told you to keep your distance, but I was hoping… There will be so many people there who are convinced her father…I thought…” Her lower lip trembled.
Matt put his hand on her arm. “He told me to stay away from the investigation, Mrs. Reynolds. Not Abby’s memorial. Of course I’ll be there. I’ll even stand with you and your family, if you’d like.”
The tears that filled her eyes made his chest ache, and when she hugged him, he held her close, feeling the tremors moving through her. She felt frail beneath his hands. The fact she’d done such a masterful job of hiding it humbled him.
“Thank you,” she whispered against his cheek. She stepped back, utilizing Commissioner Mitchell’s handkerchief to wipe beneath her eyes. She looked at Kiernan, who was watching her with a wealth of compassion. “The invitation, such as it is, is extended to you as well, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“I’d be honored,” he said, his voice gentle.
“There will be lunch, at the house, after. I was hoping we could talk about yesterday, and what you learned…” She sounded as if her composure was at its breaking point, and Kiernan took her hand between both of his.
“Yes. We’ll talk. I promise.”
She nodded, then firmed her chin.
Mitchell shook their hands and led her to a black limousine idling nearby. The back door opened and Marc Reynolds emerged, reaching for his wife’s hands as she approached him. He caught Matt’s eyes and nodded somberly before helping his wife into the car. Mitchell set off across the parking lot as the limo slid away from the curb.
“So,” Kiernan said as they both watched the long black car turn onto the road in front of the police station. “How pissed off is Branson going to be when you turn up at Abby’s funeral?”
“I don’t much give a shit.” Matt turned and looked down into Kiernan’s eyes. “Apparently, I’m a family friend.”
“So you are,” Kiernan agreed.
“Whose idea was that story?” Matt went on. “Hers, or yours?”
“Hers.”
“And how did she know to come here?”
“That might have been me.”
Matt studied the handsome face. “I gather you aren’t leaving?” He tried to keep the hopefulness out of his voice, but was fairly certain he’d failed when Kiernan’s smile softened.
“Aidan’s still working on it, but not today, no.”
Matt looked over at Sheila. “And how do you fit into this?”
She held up her hands. “I’m just the driver. But I am curious about what happened up there.”
“Well, that’s going to have to wait. I’ll call you later, but now—” Matt looked at his watch. “The funeral’s in an hour and twenty minutes. I’m guessing we need to make a stop at the hotel for Kiernan to change. You’ve got a shirt and tie in your wardrobe, right?”
“Yes,” Kiernan scoffed. He then paused, looking thoughtful. “I think. I know I’ve got a T-shirt that looks like a tuxedo jacket.”
Matt gave him an exasperated look and held up the folder. “It’s a funeral, Fitzpatrick. You can’t wear…” He saw the humor lingering in the bright eyes and shook his head
“You’re so easy,” Kiernan said with a light laugh.
“I’ve never met anyone who makes jokes about what to wear to a funeral,” Matt muttered.
Kiernan’s gaze was uncomplicated and his lips curved in a slight smile. “Maybe what makes the difference is I know funerals aren’t an ending, just a beginning of something else.”
* * *
They had to enter Kiernan’s hotel through the loading dock, just as Aidan had the night before. A call to the front desk verified that while some of the media had gotten bored and moved on, the tabloids had taken up semi-permanent residence in the lobby. The hotel manager met them at the service elevator, full of apologies Kiernan brushed away. Matt waited for him in the main area of the suite while he went into the bedroom to change.
He was checking the scores on ESPN when Kiernan reemerged. Matt turned and went still. It was probably a good thing Kiernan was involved in slipping his key and his wallet into his pocket, because Matt doubted he’d been much good at hiding his reaction.
Kiernan was completely transformed.
Matt had found him handsome from the first moment he’d seen him, but this was different. His dark hair was gelled back, tamed into sophisticated lines that revealed how handsome his fine-boned face actually was. His brows were tapered, his lashes thick and black around eyes that looked almost too large for his face. He was wearing a white shirt and black tie under a leather jacket, and his snug black trousers were worn low on narrow hips, partnered with a thin leather belt and black boots. He looked like something right off of the cover of GQ, and Matt’s heart started to beat in a hard, steady rhythm that pumped blood straight to his groin.
“Ready?” Kiernan asked.
Matt nodded and stood, grateful for the bulky lines of his overcoat. His reaction had been swift and involuntary, and if he hadn’t been wearing a coat, he was certain it would have been obvious. Stunned by the swift erection, he kept his eyes carefully averted as they walked back to his car.
Enclosed in the vehicle with Kiernan, Matt found his attention continuously diverted to the passenger seat. He tried to be subtle, but doubted he succeeded and couldn’t seem to help himself. Kiernan’s profile was elegant. His eyes, brilliant blue in the stark snow-reflected light, were beautiful. And the way he smelled…Matt had always thought the right cologne on the right man was intensely arousing. Kiernan’s cologne was spicy and clean, and he found himself fantasizing about pressing his face into the place where his neck disappeared into his high collar. It was damned distracting.
Still shaken by his reaction, Matt was careful not to let his thigh touch the slender one next to his as they took seats in the crowded church, making an effort to ignore the alluring fragrance coming from beside him. He’d always had a visceral reaction to the scent of Brad’s cologne. The fragrances were very different but his body’s response wasn’t. He bit his lip, pushing back against a rush of desire. This was hardly the time or the place.
Soft murmuring faded when a blonde woman seated next to Karen Reynolds in the front pew rose to her feet. She was wearing an elegant black suit, and she navigated her way gracefully around do
zens of floral arrangements. She climbed the steps to the lectern and looked out into the sanctuary.
“I’m Dana Richardson,” she said softly. “Abby was my niece.”
Her eulogy was heartfelt. She spoke about Abby’s dance recitals and her grades in school, and what a bright and funny little girl she’d been. Marc Reynolds was holding himself stiffly, as if he was barely keeping himself together. Karen Reynolds’ head was forward and she was holding a handkerchief in front of her mouth, and Matt could hardly bear to look at her. Her grief was tangible.
After the aunt, a singer performed a lovely version of “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” from Abby’s favorite movie, Cinderella. It all felt so sad, so wrong. Matt had never been to the funeral of a child before, and he hoped he never had to go to another. When the minister took his place, Matt listened to the homily, but it seemed to be coming to him from a distance. He knew the minister’s words were heartfelt, but what could one actually say about the violent death of a little girl? It all rang hollow in Matt’s ears, sounded flat and inadequate.
The clergyman finished his sermon with a prayer, and they bowed their heads. He felt Kiernan shift next to him and glanced over to see his head lowered, handsome face contemplative. Matt couldn’t help but wonder how all this seemed to him, with his intimate knowledge of what came next. What could a minister who spoke about “God’s mansion having many rooms” have to say to a man who could speak to the dead and knew the pertinent details of what came next firsthand?
There was another song, another singer. Another relative who spoke fondly of Abby, and her mother’s weeping became audible. She wasn’t the only one crying. The sanctuary was filled with the muffled sounds of grief. Matt fidgeted uncomfortably, beginning to regret his decision to attend. He wanted to support Karen Reynolds, but this long sad goodbye was almost more than he could stand.
Involuntarily he recalled the green grass he’d stared at instead of Brad’s flag-draped coffin, remembered the words that had rung hollow to him even then. The minister hadn’t known Brad. He hadn’t known he was funny, and pragmatic, and surprisingly gentle for a career cop. He hadn’t known he loved Bud Light and the Dallas Cowboys and his burgers medium rare. He hadn’t known Brad was a cuddler, and that his secret passion was fussy little frosted cakes Matt would pick up at their local bakery. Matt teased him, saying eating them was the gayest thing he did. The minister hadn’t known how much he loved, or was loved, and the lack made his funeral an empty and torturous exercise in futility. Matt’s throat began to close and his eyes to sting, and he stiffened, trying to fight his emotions back with a surge of panic. His hand curled into a fist next to his thigh.
A warm palm settled over the top of it, and surprisingly soft fingers rubbed his knuckles. Matt glanced to the side into wide eyes studying him in complete understanding.
“Relax,” Kiernan mouthed, his lips scarcely moving, but Matt could read the words. “It’s almost over.”
He continued to look into the warm gaze as he forced his fingers to unfold, pressing his hand flat against the wooden pew. Kiernan laid his palm on top of it, squeezed, and then pulled both his hand and his gaze away. Matt was both relieved and surprised by how the gesture seemed to steady him and he exhaled gratefully.
Moments later the same fingers clamped tight around his wrist. Kiernan was staring straight ahead, his mouth slightly open and his eyes unnaturally wide. The warmth in his expression had leached away, reminding Matt eerily of how he’d looked in Abby Reynolds’ bedroom. He leaned close.
“Kiernan,” Matt whispered. “What is it?”
“He’s here,” he said, his lips scarcely moving.
“Who?” Another eulogy went on in the background, but neither of them noticed. “Who’s here?”
“He is,” Kiernan repeated and turned to look at Matt. Their faces were inches apart, and his pupils had dilated to tiny dots in the centers of vivid blue. “He is.”
Matt stiffened as the meaning sank in. “How do you know?”
“Abby just told me.”
“She’s here?”
Kiernan nodded toward the center aisle. Slowly, Matt turned to look.
There was no little girl with blond curls standing at the end of their pew, at least not that Matt could see. But an ice-cold breeze slithered across his cheek like the brush of small, cold fingers.
Chapter Eight
“He frightens her,” Kiernan said as Matt drove through the snowy streets. “She’s been staying close to her mother, but when she sensed him there, she only remained long enough to warn us, and then she was gone.”
Matt scowled, taking another corner, slowing as his tires spun for a moment over the ice beneath the new layer of snow that was currently accumulating. He handled the minor skid with ease and stepped on the gas again. “She didn’t see him when he killed her,” he said, unable to hide his natural skepticism. “How did she know who he was?”
“She could smell him. Butterscotch.”
“Lots of people like butterscotch candies.”
“Name one.”
Matt opened his mouth to answer but he didn’t actually know anyone who sucked on hard butterscotch candies.
“See?” Kiernan said. “Not so common.”
“But there were at least three hundred people in church. How are we supposed to know which one she meant?”
“We know it was someone sitting fairly close to Karen.”
“Which means any one of two dozen people.”
“At least we can narrow it down.” Kiernan chewed thoughtfully at his lower lip.
Matt tried to remember who’d been seated in the pew in front of them in the cavernous church. “Yeah, to her father and members of their immediate family,” he muttered. “Oh, and the police commissioner, captain of detectives and assistant district attorney. This seems pretty far-fetched as a way of narrowing in on a murder suspect.”
“I know it’s not much. Maybe she went back to the house. I know she feels safest there. If I can get up to her bedroom and talk to her, I might be able to get more information. If she could stay around long enough to give me even a bit more about where he was sitting.” He exhaled roughly. “It’s that she’s so afraid of him…”
Matt’s hands gripped the steering wheel so hard the plastic dug into his palms. In his peripheral vision he saw Kiernan turn his head, and felt his eyes on him.
“What?” Kiernan asked. Matt shook his head in an abrupt motion. “Come on. What?”
Matt’s jaw hardened. “He’s done the worst he can to her. Doesn’t she understand that?”
“Not really. Most people don’t have conversations about death with their six-year-old. It’s not something they want to acknowledge is a possibility. So children go into it pretty woefully misinformed. They don’t understand what’s happened to them.”
“You’re telling me Abby doesn’t know she’s dead.” The thought made him feel ill.
“She knows something is wrong,” Kiernan qualified. “But no. Not really.”
Matt stared bleakly through the falling snow. “Christ. I thought there was supposed to be a light or something. Someone to meet you, to guide you over. Loved ones who’d gone before. Is it all crap?”
A steady, calming hand rested on his thigh, pale fingers spread. “It isn’t crap. There is something more, something greater. It’s different for everyone. Some people travel through a long tunnel, others open their eyes and find themselves in a meadow of flowers. Some are surrounded by family, some aren’t. It’s as individual as the person. But I told you, there’s still choice. Choice to go forward, or to stay where at least things look familiar. Now, imagine you’re six years old, you have no idea what’s going on, and suddenly there’s this long, dark tunnel and at the other end you hear someone calling you. Would you go?”
Matt frowned but didn�
��t answer.
“On top of that, she was compromised when she died. The drugs made everything fuzzy. It’s a lousy situation all around.”
Matt’s mouth tightened as he bit the inside of his lip.
“What?” Kiernan prodded again. “Come on, Matt.” He squeezed the rigid muscle in Matt’s thigh. “Talk to me.”
“I hate the idea she might actually still be afraid,” he answered harshly. “She shouldn’t have to be, it shouldn’t be like that.”
“I know. And I know all of this challenges something fundamental in your belief system.”
Matt shot him a narrow-eyed look.
Kiernan’s mouth softened in response. “You’re a cop, raised a Catholic. Both things are conducive to a healthy skepticism. It’s okay, I understand. But people are complicated, Matt, which means their deaths are complicated, too. People who have reached an advanced age and die peacefully have a certain death experience. You have to grant that murder victims, particularly children, might have another. But I can talk to her. It’s what I do, remember?”
Matt nodded grudgingly.
“If I didn’t think I could help, I wouldn’t be here. If I can contact her, and can get her to listen long enough, I can convince her he can’t hurt her anymore. I’m going to try.”
Matt took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. Kiernan’s hand drifted away from his thigh, and Matt missed the warmth of it almost instantly. He turned another corner and slowed at the sight in front of him.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled, eying the rows of news vans blocking the street in front of the Reynolds’ house. Traffic was backed up and crawling. He glanced in the rearview mirror before throwing the Bronco into a tight U-turn. It took the wheels a moment to find purchase on the packed snow, but the studs finally caught and jerked the vehicle around. “There won’t be any going in the back way here. But if we park far enough away…” He turned down a side street, pulling to the curb about a block from the corner. “We’re going to have to hoof it,” he said, turning off the ignition. “There’s a hat on the back seat and a scarf in the trunk. We might be able to cover up enough of your face to get by without them figuring it out.”
A Reason to Believe Page 12
