Free Silent Night by C.J. Kyle

Charlotte. The women he’d loved most in his life and had let down so gravely.
    His bellow was nothing more than a gurgle as he wished he could make amends for all the wrongs he’d done. In the distance, a coyote howled, a dog joined in on Michael’s attempt to wail in agony, turning it into a chorus.
    “Pray the good Lord has mercy on your soul, for your death will finally bring peace and a chance at happiness to a tormented soul.”
    The man’s fist gripped Michael’s hair, pulling his head back toward his ankles and snapping his spine. The wire cut off his air. Michael was going to die. As the world began to fade and spots danced before his eyes, Michael’s gaze found the circle of trees. The giant fairy ring. In the center stood his sweet Charlotte. Her bright smile and shy wave brought him peace as he exhaled his last breath.

Chapter 8
    F ROM HER LAPTOP , Miranda watched the grainy image of Father Anatole climbing into his sedan and pulling slowly out of his driveway. She checked the clock over the kitchen sink and took a deep breath. For two and a half days, she’d watched his dull routine. Wake up at five, some brief exercises on the floor by his bed—push-ups, sit-ups, a few poses of what might have been middle-aged-man yoga. A quick breakfast, always the same thing. Boiled egg, blender drink, and what looked like oatmeal. Shower. By six-fifteen, he was out the door, not to return home again until evening, where the routine was just as mundane.
    It was just past eight in the evening, and he hadn’t yet come home. It was what she was hoping for. He was usually home by seven, but tonight, the town was scheduled to have a full fireworks display at the park in Town Square. The church might finally be empty . . .
    She’d have to hurry. The church was close enough that she could be back before the fireworks were over if she was quick about it.
    Twenty-five minutes later, she was standing at the side of St. Catherine’s, wet snow and icy wind pelting her stinging cheeks. She’d scoped out the chapel, found it empty, but had also found Anatole’s office locked. She was no lock picker. Cursing her luck, she’d headed back outside and now stared at the window in front of her. She’d counted twice to make sure it was the right one. If she was wrong, she’d have wasted precious time.
    She had no choice but to go for it. There was no telling when she’d get another opportunity like this. Looking around, she blinked against the blowing snow, making certain there was no one around. Finding no one, she stood on her tiptoes and tested the window. It was unlocked.
    Thankfully, the sill wasn’t that high off the ground. She hoisted herself onto the ledge and shimmied forward. Just before her hands reached the floor, someone grabbed her calves and yanked her out of the window.
    T UCKER WALKED HIS patrol of Main Street as the fireworks display lit up the sky. As he passed each family and spectator, he handed out a flyer with Ricky’s picture on it, his old training putting a pit of despair in his stomach. Forty-eight hours. That was the window of hope for finding a missing person. Ricky Schneider had been missing for a week now. And today, he’d found out that the blood in the alley was a match to Ricky’s DNA. He’d spent a good portion of his afternoon at the Schneider house, explaining the new development. Tanya had surprised him with an outburst of tears he hadn’t thought her capable of.
    Stan hadn’t said a word.
    Tucker had every intention of bringing the asshole in for questioning but was pretty damned certain the bastard wouldn’t cooperate one bit unless Tucker showed up with a warrant for his arrest.
    And since he had nothing to base a warrant on . . .
    What a fucking mess.
    All hopes of Ricky being a runaway had disintegrated. All Tucker could hope for now was that he was hurt and unable to get help.
    But there’d been so much damned blood.
    “Merry Christmas,” he said to a passing couple.