Page 3 of The Sniper

Every spare moment I had, I came back here. After work. On weekends. On holidays when the house was the loneliest. I learned how to make tea that calmed panic attacks. How to recognize the signs of a broken rib. How to sit in silence with someone too shattered to speak.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped believing I’d ever get married.

Not because I didn’t want love, but because I’d seen what happened when it turned cruel.

I saw the aftermath too often to believe the fairytales anymore. The rings didn’t stop the fists. The vows didn’t stop the violence. Love, at least the kind I’d grown up dreaming about, started to look more like a trap than a promise.

And I wasn’t even that experienced with men to begin with.

My mama raised me on Proverbs 31, and my daddy made sure I knew the value of keeping myself pure. I didn’t grow up flirting or sneaking out or pushing boundaries. I was the girl who kept her dress hem low and her gaze down when boys started looking too long.

I loved the Lord with my whole heart. I trusted Him. I knew that if He wanted me to be a wife, He’d send the right man in the right time.

But lately, I wasn’t sure that man even existed.

Certainly not in this world. Not in this town.

Not when I’d spent so much time mopping up theblood left behind by men who said “I love you” with a clenched jaw and an open palm.

I took another sip of coffee. Bitter. Too strong. I didn’t mind.

The hallway creaked behind me—soft footsteps moving toward the nursery room we’d converted into overflow beds. The toddler from earlier was still crying. Her sobs were quieter now, muffled behind the closed door, but they tugged at me.

She’d never know what it was to grow up trusting men.

I stayed still, contemplating, for what felt like a long time, then finally stood, rinsed my cup, and turned off the light.

As I moved through the shadows of Grace House that night—checking locks, whispering prayers over sleeping forms, folding an extra blanket at the foot of one of the cots—one thought refused to leave me alone.

That feeling outside the door?

That wasn’t my imagination.

Something—someone—was out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

It started with the back porch light flickering.

Just once. Then twice.

Then it went dark.

I was halfway down the hallway when I noticed it. That strange prickle on the back of my neck, same as earlier, only sharper this time. Hungrier.

I glanced toward the kitchen. The bulb above the stove sputtered. A second later, it popped with a faint crack, plunging the space into a dim, amber half-light.

“Probably just a power surge,” I whispered to myself. My voice didn’t sound convincing, even to me.

I reached for my phone in my pocket, but before I could check the time, I heard the first sound.

The front door.

The knob shook hard—once, twice. It was locked, but it wouldn’t hold for long.

I froze.

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