Page 28 of Stalkers Anonymous

The drive to work passes in a blur. I keep checking my rearview mirror, looking for…what? A car following me? Someone watching? I park, then rub my hands over my face.

Stop it. You’re being paranoid.

I pull the note from my pocket and unfold it with trembling fingers, studying it under the fluorescent parking lot lights.

I’m watching you.

I flip it over, looking for anything else—another message, a clue, anything that might tell me who left it. But there’s nothing. Just those three words on plain white paper.

I take a picture of the note with my phone, then fold it back up and tuck it in my bag. Evidence, just in case. Of what, I’m not sure yet.

As I walk toward the employee entrance, I scan the parking garage one more time, but I don’t find anything out of the ordinary. Still, an uneasy feeling creeps up the back of my neck.

I swipe my badge and step inside, the familiar smell of antiseptic and industrial cleaner greeting me. This is my territory. My domain. Here, I’m in control.

I pull out my phone and text Cole.

Hailey: Made it to work safely.

Thanks for the coffee.

His reply is almost instant.

Cole: Good. Have a good shift. I’ll be thinking about you.

I absorb his words, warm and unexpected. I tuck my phone in my bag and head to the locker room to put my things away before my shift starts, trying to push away thoughts of anything other than Cole.

“Hailey!” Marco’s voice cuts through the air, yanking me back to reality. “Trauma coming in, three minutes out!”

And just like that, I’m back in the moment, the rest of the world falling away.

This is what I know. This is what I’m good at.

Everything else will have to wait.

But as I move into position in the trauma bay, I catch myself touching my cheek where Cole’s thumb traced my skin. I let myself smile just once before the chaos begins.

Chapter Seven: Cole

I stand on the sidewalk long after Hailey’s SUV disappears around the corner, my hands shoved deep in my pockets. The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement, but I barely notice. All I can see is the way her expression shifted when she saw that note—the flash of fear she tried to hide, the forced casualness of her voice when she insisted it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing.

My jaw clenches as I replay the moment. The way she snatched the paper off her windshield before I could see it. The defensive set of her shoulders when I pressed her about it. And that slip—creepy patients—before she caught herself.

It’s someone from the hospital. And the way her entire body flinched at the note tells me it wasn’t a thank-you for her charming bedside manner. She felt uncomfortable.

The familiar itch starts at the base of my skull, that hyperaware state where my mind moves through every detail, connects every pattern, seeks every fucking answer.

I force myself to turn away from where her car disappeared around the corner and start walking back toward my office. My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Jack wondering where the hell I am—but I ignore it.

Don’t look her up. Don’t investigate. Don’t cross that line.

Tracey’s voice echoes in my head, along with Tyler’s warning from our first meeting. We convinced ourselves we had valid reasons for our behavior. Protection. Artistic expression. Academic interest. Professional commitment. Love.

But this really would be protection.

Just like it was for Emma.