Page 132 of Stalkers Anonymous

“Oh,” Austen pipes up, finally moving from his slouch. “Did you put a geofence on this guy’s phone? I assume it’s gone dark, right?”

Okay, stalker. Asking questions like he’s the pro.

“Yeah. Three days ago.”

“Send me what you have. The number, the carrier, the apps you had it tied to. I’ll see what I can do. If we can get him pinging again, we can locate him before tomorrow. Even better.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll send it tonight.”

His response is short and quick. “Cool. Thanks.”

He opens his laptop and starts typing on his way out the door, following Jessica back to the van.

I turn to Tyler, giving him a confused look.

Tyler shrugs at me, like yeah, that’s what he does, and follows the rest of them out the door. “We’ll be in touch with Jessica’s address.”

I’m starting to understand that I have been seriously underestimating my therapy group.

…

I pick Hailey up from the hospital at eleven the next morning.

She’s in a wheelchair, even though she hates it, because that is hospital policy and Rachel—aka The Enforcer—has informed Hailey that she is going to follow hospital policy to the letter on her way out the door, whether she likes it or not. Rachel pushes the wheelchair, and Hailey rolls her eyes the entire way to the curb.

I stand at the open passenger door of my car like I am chauffeuring royalty. My queen.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Hailey grumbles when she sees my face.

“Like what?” I tease, helping her out of the chair. She holds my arms as she lowers herself into the passenger seat with a tight little exhale that tells me she is in significantly more pain than she’s letting on.

Rachel hands me a discharge folder, but she does not let go of it right away. Instead, she gives me an assessing look before finally saying, “Drive carefully.”

“I will.”

She lets go of the folder and steps back when I turn to Hailey, helping her buckle in before closing the door and walking around to the driver’s side. After I get in, I sit there for a second with my hands on the steering wheel. I take her in—all the bruises and cuts, the tight lines of anxiety around her eyes—and think about how the fuck I’m going to convince this woman to let me take her to a meeting where five strangers are going to hunt down her stalker for her.

I should ease into this conversation.

Very, very slowly would be the right thing to do.

Instead, I throw caution to the wind and dive in head first.

“So… The therapy group I’m in.”

“Yeah?” She adjusts her body in the seat, but there’s no comfortable position for someone who’s been through what she has. She’s hurting.

“It’s not exactly what you think it is.”

She turns her head slowly to look at me with her one good eye.

“What did you do?”

The immediate accusation stings a little, but I can’t really blame her. “I didn’t do anything. They came to me yesterday. I want to be clear about that.”

“Who came to you?” There’s not much patience in her voice.

“The group.”