Page 10 of Stalkers Anonymous

“Well, enjoy the rest of your hike. I need to get going if I want to be done before it gets dark. Thanks again for your help.”

“You too, Hailey.” He says my name carefully, like he’s testing how it sounds. Like he’s tasting it. “Stay safe out there.”

As we part ways, heading in different directions at the trail junction, I feel an unexpected twinge in my stomach. Not quite regret, but… Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Should I have offered to join him? I turn back to see how far away he is, but he’s already disappearing around a turn.

Fuck.

I’d look desperate if I went after him now.

My hand goes back to my hair tie. I slide two fingers beneath it, feeling it stretch around my wrist as I pull. I let it snap back against my skin, the sting drawing me back to reality.

I reluctantly shake off my lingering regrets as I jump back into my hike, focusing on the crunch of dirt and gravel beneath my boots. Cole was just someone who happened to be in the right place at the right time. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.

Except it’s been years since I’ve wanted it to be more.

Still, as I reach the reservoir overlook and pause to drink water, I find myself scanning the opposite horizon, where the South Ridge trail winds upward. I can’t see any hikers from this distance, just the golden-green landscape of early autumn in the foothills, but I wonder if Cole has reached his destination. If he’s found whatever he was seeking in these mountains today. Or even better, if he’s hunched over, heaving for air like I know I would have been.

The thought is fleeting, pushed aside as I continue my shortened hike. By the time I return to my car two hours later, the emergency feels distant, processed and filed away like the many others I’ve witnessed in my career.

Scanning the parking lot, I wonder which car is Cole’s, then force myself to make my way to my own vehicle. I release a lengthy sigh as I collapse into the driver’s seat, running my hands over my face.

Should I have gone with him?

I shake my head, pushing away the idea of what could have been. If he had wanted me to hike with him, he would have asked. End of story. This wasn’t meant to be our meet-cute.

I force my hands to the steering wheel and start the car, but the feeling of something there doesn’t quite go away.

Chapter Three: Cole

The Rustic Diner sits on the corner of Mountain Avenue and Howes Street, its neon sign humming in the early evening light. I’ve driven past it a hundred times but never been inside. It looks like the kind of place that hasn’t changed its menu since 1972, with worn vinyl booths, coffee that tastes like it’s been sitting on a burner since breakfast, and waitresses who call everyone “hon.”

Perfect. Totally anonymous. Zero chance of running into anyone from work.

I check my watch: 5:58 p.m. Tyler said to meet at six. My instinct is to be early, scope out the place, choose a seat with a clear view of the exits. But I force myself to wait in my car until 6:02, a small act of rebellion against my hardwired vigilance.

When I finally walk in, Tyler is already there, seated in a booth near the back. I watched him walk in seven minutes ago, almost as aware of his surroundings as I am. Probably the same instinct—control the environment, choose the vantage point. I recognize the tactical mindset because it mirrors my own, and the realization makes me immediately uncomfortable.

“Cole,” he calls, raising a hand. “Over here!”

I nod my acknowledgment, then thread my way between tables. There isn’t a dinner rush, but there’s a steady hum of conversation, the clatter of plates and silverware providing a blanket of ambient noise. This place is good for privacy, at least.

“You found it,” Tyler says as I slide into the booth across from him. He looks different outside the community center basement—more relaxed.

“It wasn’t exactly hidden,” I reply, shrugging off my jacket. “Been here before?”

“At least once a week. They make the best Denver omelet in town.” He gestures to a mug of coffee in front of him. “Food’s solid, coffee’s decent. I figured neutral territory would be better for our first meeting.”

Tracey failed to mention that I’d actually have to meet Tyler in person. She also failed to mention that our “check-ins” would be scheduled on his time, whenever he wants.

A waitress appears. White and middle-aged, with honey-blond hair piled in a messy bun, her name tag announcing her as Doris. She sets a menu in front of me with a practiced flick of her wrist.

“Coffee to start, hon?” she asks, staring at me with raised eyebrows.

“Please.”

“Coming right up. Give a holler when you’re ready to order.” She’s gone as quickly as she came, disappearing to the kitchen.

“So,” Tyler says once she’s out of earshot, “how’s the beginning of your recovery going?”