Page 42 of The Sniper

And now she was hurting, bad, and I was still miles away.

The streets blurred past—wet asphalt, sagging oaks, the Lowcountry waking slow under that burnished sky.

My pulse thumped steady, and I kept my breathing even, training kicking in.

Didn’t matter how fast I drove; I couldn’t outrun what was waiting.

Her dad—shot, gone.

Some bastard out there with blood on his hands, still breathing when he shouldn’t be.

I’d find him. I’d end him.

But first, her.

I pulled up to her building, tires squealing as I braked hard, and bolted out, taking the stairs two at a time.

Didn’t knock—just pushed the door open, and there she was, crumpled on the kitchen floor, cotton dress pooled around her like a wilted flower.

Her face—Christ, her face—pale, eyes red and hollow, grief etched so deep it looked like it’d never leave.

She saw me, and when I bent down, something broke—she stumbled up, crashed into my arms, and folded against me like she couldn’t stand on her own.

“He’s dead,” she choked, voice ragged, hands fisting my shirt. “Daddy’s dead.”

I wrapped my arms around her, tight, her body trembling against mine, her breath hot and uneven on my neck.

“I’ve got you,” I said, low, soothing, the only thing I could think to get out.

I didn’t know how to console her—never been good at soft words or gentle lies.

My gift was hunting, killing, ending threats.

Not this.

But she clung to me, sobbing, and I held her, jaw tight, letting her break against me like waves on a cliff.

“He’s dead,” she kept saying, over and over, a mantra of pain, her fingers digging into my chest like she could claw the truth out.

I didn’t say anything—just stood there, solid, letting her lean until the sobs slowed, her breathing hitching into something quieter, emptier.

My shirt was damp with her tears, her hair sticking to my skin, and I didn’t care—didn’t care about anything but her, right then.

Inside, I was already planning—tracking the shooter, running the angles, figuring out how to put a bullet in the bastard’s skull.

She didn’t need to know that, not now.

Didn’t need to see the part of me that thrived on blood and payback.

I’d keep that locked down, let her have this moment, this collapse, without the weight of what I’d do next.

She’d just calmed enough—her shaking easing, her grip loosening—when I guided her to the sofa, sitting her down gentle, her hands still clutching mine like a lifeline.

Before I could say anything, a knock hit the door—sharp, official, three raps that made my hackles rise.

I went still, instincts flaring, and slipped my hand to my waist, pulling the pistol from its holster.

Kept it low, out of her sight, and stalked to the door, every muscle coiled.

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