Page 114 of Stalkers Anonymous

“Okay.”

“Commit to it, Cole.”

“I commit to it.”

The rest of the meeting moves past me in a blur. Tyler says he’s here for whatever I need. When Tracey asks for my weekly commitment, I repeat it back: daily check-ins, every meeting for six months, individual therapy, the inventory.

…

Tyler walks me to my truck. The parking lot is half empty, and the lamp overhead is flickering like the bulb is silently screaming for mercy.

“That was a lot,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“You said a lot of the right things.”

“Yeah.”

He stops beside my driver’s door and watches me for a long second. I can feel the question coming before he asks it.

“Are you actually going to delete the tracking on Lars tonight?”

I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say because I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Tyler nods slowly, like that’s the answer he expected.

“I’m not going to fight you on it,” he says. “Not tonight. I’m just telling you—if you’re holding anything back from the group, the group is going to find out. They always do. And when they find out, they’re going to be a lot less interested in helping you than if you’d just told them from the jump.”

“The group knows everything. I just said all of it in there.”

“Tracey’s group knows.” He watches my face. “That’s not the same as the group knowing.”

I blink, confused. “What?”

“Nothing. Ignore me. I’m tired.”

“Tyler.”

“Go home, Cole. Get some sleep. Delete what you can actually bring yourself to delete tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He claps me on the shoulder and walks toward his own car without looking back.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Hailey

It’s been eight weeks since Cole confessed it all.

I’m sitting in Dr. Sarah Martinez’s office, a space designed to feel calm and non-threatening with soft lighting, comfortable furniture, and carefully chosen artwork. Rachel recommended Dr. Martinez after I realized I needed professional help processing what had happened. I have appointments with her twice a week for an hour.

“Tell me about your week,” Dr. Martinez says, settling into her chair with a warm but professional demeanor. She’s in her fifties, wicked sharp, and wears chunky-knit sweaters in bright colors that illuminate her golden-brown skin. “Any changes in how you’re feeling?”

“I’m feeling better, I think. Some days.” I adjust my position to settle back into the couch. “The permanent protection hearing was pushed to next month, but they did grant me a temporary civil protection order.”

“That’s still a significant step. How did it feel when they granted the protection order?”

“Empowering,” I say, and I mean it. “It felt like I was finally doing something concrete to protect myself instead of just hoping the problem would go away. And now he can’t come within a hundred yards of me, my apartment, or Fort Collins Memorial Hospital without violating the order.”

“And have you heard anything from Mr. Winters since filing?”