Page 48 of The Sniper

Grief hung heavy in the air, thick as the Lowcountry humidity, and I didn’t do well with it.

Never had.

Didn’t know how to console, how to stitch words together that’d fix anything.

I’d seen death—dealt it, watched it—but this? This quiet, broken shit? It clawed at me, made me want to run, hunt, do something with my hands that wasn’t standing still.

But I stayed.

For her.

Hallie Mae needed me, and if there was one thing I understood, it was duty—carved into me from years of orders, targets, blood.

She was curled up with her mom on that rocking chair, their sobs blending into a low hum that cut deeper than any scream.

I kept my face blank, my stance loose, like I belonged there among the casseroles and murmured condolences from church folks drifting in and out.

Inside, though, I was a coiled spring—every tear she shed winding me tighter, every shudder of her shoulders pushing me closer to the edge of something I couldn’t name.

I wanted to find the bastard who’d done this, put a bullet in his skull, make it right.

But that wasn’t what she needed now.

She needed me here, steady, so I planted my feet and didn’t move.

The deacon—Charles—kept shooting me looks, like he was sizing me up, but he didn’t push.

Good. Didn’t have the patience for questions.

Mama finally eased up, her sobs fading to a shaky quiet, and Hallie Mae untangled herself slow, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

She looked at me, eyes red and hollow, but there was a flicker in them—something alive, something that pulled me in despite the mess.

The church ladies bustled inside, fussing over tea and food, and I stepped closer, voice low. “Where you wanna go? Home?”

She shook her head, slow, like she was underwater. “No.”

Then she surprised me stupid.

“I want to go to your place,” she said, voice flat, tranced. “To forget everything.”

I froze, staring at her, the words sinking in like a punch I didn’t see coming.

Should’ve said no.

If I was a better man, I would’ve—taken her home, tucked her in, left her to grieve properly.

But I wasn’t better.

Couldn’t say no, not to her, not when she looked at me like that—like I was the only thing keeping her from drowning.

“Okay,” I said, throat tight, and turned for the truck before I could talk myself out of it.

She followed, silent, climbing in without a word, and I started the engine, pulling out onto the road toward Dominion Hall.

Every mile, I thought of excuses—reasons to turn around, take her back to her apartment, let her sleep this off.

She’s grieving, she’s not thinking straight, this isn’t right.

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