Page 22 of The Sniper

And now he was slipping away, too, into a life I didn’t fit in.

“Home?” he asked, glancing at me for the first time.

I laughed—sharp, hollow. “Dominion Hall ain’t home.”

Sullivan’s Island was home—sand between my toes, salt in my lungs, the crash of waves drowning out the noise in my head. I didn’t say it. Didn’t need to. Atlas knew.

Instead, I took another swig of coffee and said, “Grace House.”

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t need to. Just turned the truck, the engine rumbling low under the weight of the silence.

I didn’t tell him about her—didn’t tell him I needed to see Hallie Mae, needed to know if she was real or just some ghost I’d dreamed up in that cell. Part of me didn’tbelieve she existed—some angel who’d vouched for me, saved my ass from a cage I’d half-wanted to rot in.

And if I could dig up the guts, I owed her a thank you. Not that I’d say it clean—words weren’t my thing—but I’d figure it out.

The streets slid by, wet and empty, storefronts dark under the overcast sky. Charleston had a way of looking haunted in the gray—like the ghosts of old wars and older sins hung in the air, watching.

I didn’t mind it. Felt right, somehow, like the city knew me better than I knew myself. My knuckles throbbed, still raw from last night, and I flexed them slow, savoring the sting.

Didn’t give a shit about the fight, the cops, the bullshit. Didn’t care about much at all, except her. Hallie Mae Calhoun. She’d gotten under my skin, and I didn’t know how to cut her out. Didn’t know if I wanted to.

Grace House came into view—the sagging Victorian hunched behind the Piggly Wiggly, its porch warped and weary, windows patched with tape from last night’s mess. Atlas pulled up a block away, killed the engine, and looked at me.

“Need me?” he asked.

“Nah,” I said, popping the door. “I’m good. I’ll catch a ride back.”

He nodded once, didn’t push. I stepped out, coffee still in hand, and let the door slam shut.

The truck didn’t move—Atlas just sat there, watching, like he always did. I didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.

I walked toward the shelter, the air thick with the smell of rain and rot. The place was quiet now, no cops, no ambulances, just the aftermath hanging heavy.

A busted window gaped like a wound, shards of glassglinting in the dirt. The courtyard gate hung crooked, bent from that bastard’s shoulder, and I could still see the bloodstain on the concrete, dark and slick under a tarp they hadn’t bothered to move.

Didn’t faze me. I’d seen worse—left worse—in places most people couldn’t pronounce.

I stopped at the edge of the lot, leaned against a post, and scanned the building. No sign of her. Maybe she wasn’t here. Maybe she’d gone home, curled up under a quilt, trying to scrub me out of her head like I was trying to scrub her out of mine.

Didn’t matter. I’d wait. I had time—more than I knew what to do with—and a curiosity that wouldn’t quit.

Hallie Mae. I rolled her name around in my head, tasting it like the coffee—bitter, warm, sharp. She’d stood up for me, put her neck on the line for a killer she didn’t even know.

Why? Respect? Pity? Something else? I didn’t get it, and that pissed me off. I didn’t like puzzles I couldn’t solve, didn’t like feeling like I owed someone.

But I did. I owed her, and that debt burned in my gut, mixing with the want I couldn’t shake.

A damp wind kicked up, tugging at my jacket. I took another sip of coffee, let it sit on my tongue, and watched the shelter like it might save me.

Didn’t give a shit how long it took. Didn’t care if she walked out and told me to fuck off. I just needed to see her—those blue eyes, that blonde hair, that fire she didn’t even know she had.

Needed to know if she’d flinch when she saw me again, or if she’d stand her ground like she had in that courtyard.

And if I was lucky—if I could choke down the prideand find the words—I’d tell her thanks. Maybe more. Maybe nothing. Didn’t matter. I’d figure it out when I got there.

For now, I waited.

And I didn’t give a fuck about anything else.

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