Page 43 of The Sniper

Peered through the peephole—two cops, uniforms crisp, faces grim.

I exhaled, slid the gun back into my waistband, and opened the door.

They didn’t blink at me—just nodded, eyes shiftingpast to Hallie Mae, still hunched on the sofa, pale as a ghost.

“Miss Calhoun?” one of them said, a woman with a clipboard and a voice too soft for the job. “We’re with Estill PD. We need to talk to you about your father.”

“She knows,” I cut in, voice flat, stepping between them and her. “You’re late.”

The woman frowned, glanced at her partner—a stocky guy with a buzz cut—then back at me. “We need her to come to Estill. Identify the body.”

“Now?” I said, sharper than I meant. “You think this is the best fucking time for that?”

Hallie Mae stood, surprising me, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands. “No. I want to go. Now.”

I turned, caught her eyes—red-rimmed but hard, like she’d latched onto something to hold her up.

The cops shifted, ready to move, and the woman said, “We can drive you?—”

“No,” Hallie Mae interrupted, firm. “Noah’s taking me. If he doesn’t mind.”

“Course I don’t,” I said, already grabbing my keys.

Didn’t give a shit what the cops thought.

She needed me, and I’d be there, end of story.

We headed out, her steps slow but sure, me keeping close as we hit the truck.

The cops trailed in their cruiser, lights off, a quiet escort through the gray morning.

She climbed in, buckled up, and stared out the windshield, hands knotted in her lap, face blank like she’d gone somewhere I couldn’t reach.

I drove, the engine rumbling low, the road stretching out ahead—empty, wet, lined with pines that leaned heavy under the drizzle starting to fall.

Tried to think of something to say, anything that’d cut through the silence, but it all sounded stupid in my head—trite bullshit like “it’ll be okay” or “he’s in a better place.”

She didn’t need that. Didn’t want it.

I kept my mouth shut, hands tight on the wheel, glancing at her every few miles.

Her profile was sharp against the window—pale, still, like a statue carved from grief.

The miles rolled by, and I kept waiting for her to break again, to cry, to scream, but she just sat there, locked in her own head.

Then, out of nowhere, she spoke, voice low, tranced. “Do you think I’m cursed?”

It shocked me—hit like a slap, and I jerked my head to look at her.

“What?” I said, sharper than I meant.

“There’s no way,” I added quickly, softer now, trying to keep the edge out. “You’re one of the good ones. People don’t get cursed.”

She didn’t look at me, just kept staring out, eyes glassy. “Trouble comes in threes.”

I opened my mouth to argue—tell her that’s bullshit, just old wives’ tales—but the words died fast.

I’d lived enough to know trouble could come in threes, fours, fucking dozens if it wanted.

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