Page 27 of The Sniper

“No,” I said, far too fast. Then softer, “But I don’t know what to do with it.”

He stepped back then, just enough to give me space to breathe. And somehow that made it worse—like I missed him already.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “Just let it exist.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream at him to leave before I made another mistake.

Instead, I said, “You shouldn’t stay long. Someone might come in.”

“You want me to leave?”

I looked up at him—at the man who had taken a life and lit mine on fire in the same breath.

“No,” I whispered. “But maybe I should.”

His eyes burned into mine. “Too late for that, sweetheart.”

Deep down, I knew he was right.

I wondered what my daddy would say if he could see me right now.

Not just standing barefoot in a kitchen with a man like Noah Dane, but feeling what I felt. Wanting what I wanted.

Jamie Calhoun had always been the kind of father who led with love and corrected with Scripture. He’d driven back to Estill after we left the police station, eyes bloodshot but voice still steady when he hugged megoodbye. “I’ll be back Monday,” he’d promised, gripping my shoulder. “Whatever you need, I’ll be there.”

He’d meant it. Always did. But I knew he had Sunday services to lead and half a dozen hospital visits to make today. Saturdays were full at First Baptist—sermon prep, a wedding consult, maybe checking in on the couple who’d just lost their baby. His whole heart was wrapped around that town and that church.

Still, if he knew I was standing here now with Noah …

Lord, help me. He’d have words.

He’d quote James—about resisting the devil so he’d flee from you. He’d warn me not to confuse strength with danger, not to mistake desire for calling. And he’d probably want to have a long, awkward talk about purity and temptation and yoking myself to someone unequally faithful.

I wasn't naive. I knew better. But for the first time in my life, knowing better didn’t feel like enough to stop me.

Not when Noah looked at me like that.

8

NOAH

The workers rolled up in a beat-up F-150, dust kicking off the tires as they parked crooked in the Grace House lot. Five old-timers—grizzled, leather-skinned guys with tool belts slung low and eyes that’d seen more summers than I’d ever count.

I’d called them in from a crew I knew, guys who’d patched up Dominion properties back when I gave a shit about the family business. They spilled out, grunting hellos, already sizing up the busted windows and that sorry-ass gate like it was personal.

Hallie Mae stepped out onto the porch, arms crossed tight, blonde braid swinging as she shook her head. “They can’t be here,” she said, voice sharp but shaky. “We don’t have money for this.”

I laughed—low, easy, leaning against the railing like I owned the place. “Put it on my tab.”

Her blue eyes narrowed, flicking over me like she was trying to figure out if I was serious or just screwing with her. I straightened up, wiped the smirk off my face, and met her gaze square. “Imean it. But I’m not doing anything without your say-so. Don’t want to spook the women and kids. You good with this?”

She hesitated, lips parting like she wanted to argue, but then her shoulders softened—just a fraction. “Okay,” she said, quiet. “If you’re sure.”

I saw it then—curiosity sparking in those eyes, bright and searching, like she was peeling me back layer by layer.

“Why?” she asked, softer now. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s the right thing,” I said, simple as that. “And if it’s right, it’s the only thing.”

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