Page 28 of The Sniper

Her mouth twitched, damn near a smile, and something in my chest kicked—hard. She didn’t say anything else, just nodded once and disappeared inside to round up the house guests, tell them to stay put while the crew got to work.

I turned to the old-timers, already unloading ladders and toolboxes, and clapped my hands once, sharp.

“Listen up,” I said. “Need this done fast. Windows, gate, whatever’s broken in there—top to bottom. Double pay if you’re out by sundown.”

They didn’t need the nudge—guys like that lived for a job—but I saw the glint in their eyes at the cash. “Yes, sir,” one of them muttered, a graybeard with a limp and a tape measure already in hand. They scattered like ants, measuring frames, yanking the gate off its hinges, hammering like the world depended on it.

I caught Hallie Mae watching from the kitchen window, arms still crossed, that wariness clinging to her like a second skin. But there was something else too—impressed, maybe, her head tilting as the crew moved with a rhythm she hadn’t expected. She stepped out aftera while, barefoot again, skirt brushing her calves, and sidled up next to me on the porch.

“The money,” she said, voice low. “Where’s it coming from?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, brushing it off, hands shoved in my pockets.

She frowned, then blurted, “Are you rich?”

I laughed—loud, head tipping back, the sound bouncing off the sagging roof. “Yeah, kind of.”

Her cheeks went pink, and she looked away, like she hadn’t meant to ask. I let it fade, didn’t push, just watched the crew for a minute—nails sinking into wood, the gate creaking back into shape. Then I turned to her. “What’s everyone eating for lunch?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Hard to cook with all this racket. And the kitchen’s a mess anyway.”

“I’ll handle it,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Hearty Charleston fare. I know people.”

Her brows shot up, but she didn’t argue. I dialed Fabian, an old buddy who ran a joint downtown—Lowcountry grub, the kind that stuck to your ribs. “Hey, man,” I said when he picked up. “Need three of everything on the menu. Yeah, everything—shrimp and grits, fried chicken, collards, the works. Deliver to the address I’m texting. Fast.”

I hung up, caught her staring, those blue eyes wide as saucers while she listened. She didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, bare toes curling against the porch boards. Then she asked again, softer this time, “Why are you doing this?”

I grinned, couldn’t help it. “That’s what heroes do, right?”

Her face stayed flat, no smile, and I dropped the cocky shit quick. Stepped closer, voice leveling out.

“I owe you,” I said. “For what you did at the station. And I want to help.”

Inside, I couldn’t believe I’d said it—admitted it out loud, like some sap spilling his guts. But it was true. More than that, I didn’t want to leave her. What the hell was it about her? A teacher. A volunteer bleeding heart. A woman who’d plant herself between a gun and her people without blinking. She fascinated me, and I didn’t have a damn clue why.

She didn’t respond—just looked at me, those eyes cutting through the bullshit I usually hid behind. Then she nodded, slow, like she’d decided something, and turned back inside.

I stayed put, watching the crew, the sun climbing higher, sweat beading on my neck. Didn’t care about the heat, the noise, the ache in my knuckles from last night’s fight. Just kept stealing glances at the window, waiting for her to pop up again.

The food showed up an hour later—Fabian’s crew hauling in trays stacked high, steam curling off foil pans like a Lowcountry fog. Shrimp and grits thick with andouille, fried chicken crispy and golden, collards simmered in bacon fat, cornbread slabs dripping butter. Enough to feed a small army.

Hallie Mae came out, eyes popping at the spread, and I grabbed a couple trays, nodding at her to follow.

“Room by room,” I said. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t hesitate—picked up a tray, balanced it like she’d done this a hundred times, and led the way. We hit the first room, a cramped little space with a mom and two kids curled up on a cot. The woman’s eyes went wide when we set the food down, and the kids—a boy and a girl, maybe six and eight—scrambled up, grinning like it was Christmas.

“Thank you,” the mom whispered, voice shaky, and I nodded, didn’t say anything, just kept moving.

Room after room, same story—women lighting up, kids diving in, shy smiles and quiet thank-yous hitting me like punches I didn’t expect. Didn’t know why it got under my skin—maybe the way their faces softened, like they hadn’t seen kindness in too long. Hallie Mae moved smoothly beside me, handing out plates, murmuring soft words I couldn’t hear. She was good at this—better than good—and I couldn’t stop watching her.

When we finished, the trays empty and the halls smelling like grease and spice, we ended up back in the kitchen. She leaned against the counter, wiping her hands on a rag, and I caught that wariness in her eyes again—same as some of the women we’d fed. Like I was a storm they weren’t sure would pass or break.

“They’re scared of me,” I said, jerking my head toward the rooms. “Some of them. You, too, a little.”

She didn’t deny it—just looked at me, steady. “They’ve all been hurt,” she said. “Every one of them. By men.”

I nodded, slow, letting that sink in. “Any bastard who hits a woman should be shot.”

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