Free Silent Night by C.J. Kyle Page A

“Please take this and call the number at the bottom if you see this boy.”
    He passed them a flyer and watched with disgust as they smiled, walked on, and promptly threw the paper in the trash without so much as glancing at it.
    No one ever thought they’d be the one to see a missing person. To have information. That was why those forty-eight hours were rarely successful. People just didn’t bother with things that didn’t concern them personally.
    His phone buzzed. It was dispatch. Frowning, he answered. “Shannon?”
    “No, it’s Lisa. Shannon went home sick. Sorry, Chief, tried to radio but you didn’t respond so I had to call your private line.”
    Tucker cursed. He’d left his radio in the car to charge while he patrolled. “No problem. What is it?”
    “Got a call from St. Catherine’s. Apparently there was an attempted break-in. Father Anatole asked that we send someone right away, but I didn’t know who you wanted to pull off their post to take the call.”
    Tucker felt his frown deepen. “I’ll take it. You said attempted?”
    “The priest caught the culprit in the act so you might want to hurry. Said he’s got things handled till you come but he’s not exactly spry.”
    “On my way. Will radio in when I get there.”
    “Ten four.”
    The call went dead and Tucker put the phone back in his pocket, already heading toward the cruiser he’d left parked in front of City Hall.
    This night just kept getting longer.
    S O MUCH FOR keeping her cover.
    It had been twenty minutes since Father Anatole had caught Miranda Winnie-the-Pooh-ing it through his office window. She’d been stupid to think she could successfully break in, and the little cameras in her bag were making her twitch. Hopefully, the police wouldn’t check her bag when they arrived or she’d have a lot of explaining to do. But she’d been caught trying to break and enter. She was probably screwed.
    And she’d only made it halfway through the window.
    If she could just get Anatole and his minions to find a distraction, she still had a shot at placing the cameras. But how the hell was she supposed to do that? Anatole hadn’t taken his eyes off her since he’d escorted her into his office and told her to sit while he called the police.
    Her guts were a knot of nervous threads. Frayed threads. Really, really old frayed threads. Every time Father Anatole’s pacing by the window brought him closer to her seat, she tensed, and every time she told herself that he didn’t scare the piss out of her, her insides gave another little tremor to remind her that she was a liar.
    His three deacons stood at the office door, should she try to escape, and talked among themselves. Distracted a bit. But not Father Anatole. He was watching her like a hawk. As though running was even an option. Her legs would never obey that command. She was pretty sure she’d just melt into one of the cracks in the scuffed plank flooring, one big boneless pool of terror.
    She looked at the cracks. Might not be such a bad getaway . . .
    What a wasted, disastrous night this had turned in to. And on top of it all, she was probably going to end up spending the night in jail.
    Father Anatole stopped pacing to study her better. “You’re sure we haven’t met before?”
    It was the third time he’d asked her that since pulling her out of the window. “I told you, we met the other day.”
    “Yes, and there was something familiar about you then, too.” He fingered his salt-and-pepper goatee, the glint in his eye letting her know he wasn’t buying one word. “You still haven’t told me why you felt compelled to break into the church.”
    Since yanking her out of his window, he’d asked her that repeatedly as well. She still didn’t know what to tell him. Why hadn’t she come up with a story before coming here?
    Because your brain doesn’t have room for anything else anymore. Father Anatole has taken up each and every cell . . .
    “I checked out of my room, and