Page 44 of The Sniper

Didn’t matter what I believed; she felt it, and that was real enough.

“Not this time,” I said instead, voice firm. “I’ll be right here.”

She didn’t answer—just nodded, faint, like she’d heard me but wasn’t sure it changed anything.

The rest of the drive stretched quiet, the hum of the engine and the soft patter of rain the only sounds.

Estill came up slow—a small town, all brick storefronts and faded signs, the kind of place that clung to the past like it could keep the world out.

The cops led us to the station, a squat building with too-bright lights cutting through the gray.

I parked, killed the engine, and turned to her.

“You sure about this?” I asked, low, not wanting to push but needing to know.

She nodded, hands unbuckling slow, deliberate. “I have to see him.”

I didn’t argue—couldn’t.

Got out, circled to her side, and opened the door, offering a hand she took without looking.

Her fingers were cold, trembling, but her grip was firm, like she was holding on to me to stay upright.

The cops met us at the entrance, led us inside—fluorescents buzzing, the smell of stale coffee and antiseptic sharp in the air.

They took us down a hall, past desks and murmurs, to a door marked “Morgue.”

My gut twisted—not for me, for her—but I kept my face blank, my hand steady on her back.

She stopped at the threshold, breath hitching, and I leaned in close, voice low. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I know,” she whispered, barely audible, and stepped inside.

I followed, ready to catch her if she fell, ready to hunt whoever’d done this the second she didn’t need me standing there.

Because that’s what I did—protected, hunted, killed.

And for her, I’d do it all, no matter the cost.

13

HALLIE MAE

They pulled back the sheet.

And I broke.

I didn’t even mean to. I didn’t have time to prepare, to breathe, to brace myself for the truth. One second I was standing, swaying slightly in the sterile cold of that godawful room, and the next, my knees buckled. I crumpled forward with a sound I didn’t recognize—raw, wounded, primal—and if Noah hadn’t caught me, I would’ve hit the floor.

“No—no, no, no, no, no—” The word came out over and over, a chant, a sob, a scream choked down by a throat that couldn’t hold it.

His face was right there. My daddy.

Still. Pale. His jaw slack, his eyes closed like sleep had caught him in the middle of a sentence. But this wasn’t sleep.

This was gone.

This was never again.

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