Page 18 of Stalkers Anonymous

I reach my car—a black mid-size SUV that handles Colorado’s winter roads with ease—and unlock it with the key fob. As I buckle my seat belt, I catch myself checking the back seat before starting the engine. Another habit, this one learned from my mother, who worked a lot of night shifts in the Army.

The drive home is peaceful, the streets mostly empty. My apartment is only fifteen minutes from the hospital—a proximity I value on mornings like this, when I’m too mentally exhausted to make a longer drive. As I navigate the familiar route, I find my mind drifting to my plans for the day: sleep for as long as I can, then see if Rachel wants to get coffee.

It’s only as I’m unlocking my apartment door that my unease returns.

Something Winters said nags at me. Not just Chewy’s name, but his insistence that I’d mentioned my pet to him before. The deliberate lie.

I push the door open and am immediately greeted by Chewy’s soft chittering sounds. He’s awake and eager for some love after an entire night alone. I scoop him up, his long furry body wiggling with excitement as he nuzzles my neck.

“Hey, buddy,” I murmur, carrying him to the couch. “Did you have a quiet night? Better than mine, I hope.”

As I sit there, stroking his soft fur, I find myself glancing at the windows, checking that the blinds are fully closed. I think about Rachel’s offer of her couch and dismiss it again. This is my home. I won’t be driven out by vague anxiety over some drug-seeking patient who probably overheard me talking to another staff member about Chewy during one of his previous visits.

Still, as I head to bed, the sun now fully risen, I double-check the locks on my door and windows. Just to be safe.

Just in case.

Because the thing about working in an emergency room is that you see, firsthand, how quickly ordinary days can turn disastrous.

How thin the membrane is between safety and danger.

How easily it can rupture.

It’s not paranoia if the precautions make sense. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I finally drift off to sleep, Chewy curled in a warm ball at my neck, the sound of his soft breathing a comforting reminder that I’m not alone.

Chapter Five: Cole

“Matthews, are you listening to me?”

I blink, pulling my attention away from the lines of code on my screen. Jack stands in the doorway of my office—if you can call the glass-walled cubicle an office. It’s more like an aquarium where everyone can watch me work and nothing is a secret.

“Sorry. Deep in a network trace.” I straighten in my chair. “What’s up?”

Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I asked if you finished the security audit for MediTech. They’ve been blowing up my emails all morning.”

“Just wrapping it now,” I say, turning my screen toward him. “Found three critical vulnerabilities in their patient portal, two backdoors in their billing system, and their network segmentation is basically nonexistent. They’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Jack’s expression darkens as he skims my report. “Fuck. And they handle medical records for half the hospitals in Colorado?”

“Including Fort Collins Memorial,” I confirm, feeling a flicker of satisfaction at his reaction. Jack’s wife had all three of their children at Memorial. It’s one thing to deal with security breaches on a professional level, but it’s another when your family’s information could be at risk. This is why I’m good at my job—I see the connections that others miss, the weaknesses others overlook.

“Good catch,” Jack says. “Write it up with your recommendations and send it to me by EOD. I’ll schedule a call with their CTO tomorrow.”

I nod, already turning back to my screen. “Consider it done.”

Jack doesn’t leave. Instead, he closes my door—a rare occurrence that immediately puts me on edge.

“Cole,” he starts, and I know from his tone this isn’t about MediTech anymore. He leans against the edge of my desk, crossing his arms. “You hungry? Let’s grab a coffee and some food.”

It’s phrased as a question, but we both know it’s not really a request. When your boss and former army buddy asks you to go anywhere, you go.

“Sure,” I say, saving my work. “Give me two minutes to finish this.”

“Take five. I’ll be ready when you are.” He taps the doorframe twice and disappears.

I finish documenting my findings and grab my jacket. The familiar itch starts at the base of my skull—the anticipation of what Jack really wants to talk about. He wouldn’t pull me away from work in the middle of the day unless it was important.

He’s already waiting by the elevator when I emerge from my office. We ride down in silence, the only sound the mechanical hum of the cables and gears. It’s not uncomfortable—we spent enough time in tense silence during our tours in Afghanistan to welcome peaceful quiet at home—but I can feel the weight of the conversation he wants to have like a weighted vest on my shoulders.