Page 68 of Stalkers Anonymous

“Any time.”

“I mean it.” Her thumb traces along my jaw. “This is the most relaxed I’ve felt in weeks.”

I perk up at that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She smiles. “You’re good for me, Cole.”

“You’re good for me, too.”

She kisses me one more time, quickly and sweetly, before sliding into her car. I step back, giving her room, and watch her start the engine.

She waves through the window, then pulls out of the parking spot. I watch her drive toward the exit, noting which direction she turns in, memorizing the route she takes toward the main road. It happens before I can stop it—the automatic cataloging, the mental mapping.

I get in my car and start the engine, hands gripping the steering wheel.

I sit there for a full minute, engine idling, watching the empty space where Hailey’s car used to be. Sedan Guy’s wife returns from her jog and climbs into the passenger seat. They pull out together, turning left toward the main road.

Not a creep. Just a guy waiting for his wife.

I exhale slowly, forcing my hands to relax. Then I put the car in reverse and pull out of the parking spot.

Left instead of right.

Home instead of the hospital.

It takes everything I have.

The drive back to my apartment feels longer than it should. Every intersection is a choice—I could still turn around, still catch up, still give in to the compulsion clawing at my chest. But I don’t. I keep driving in the wrong direction, away from her, trusting that she’ll arrive safely.

Trusting her.

It’s harder than it should be.

I park in my usual spot and sit in the car for a moment, staring at nothing in particular. I eventually head inside and lock the door behind me, which is when my laptop catches my eye from the kitchen counter.

Winters.

I could dig deeper. Find out where he is right now, what he’s doing, whether he’s anywhere near the hospital. It would only take a few minutes. I could look just closely enough to confirm she’s safe.

My hand hovers over the laptop.

No.

I pour myself a shot of whiskey instead and sit on the couch, watching the last of the daylight fade through the windows. The laptop stays closed. Another small victory.

She’ll text me when her shift ends. I can wait.

I can be normal for thirteen hours.

Probably.

Maybe I should text Tyler.

The drink burns going down, and I let myself sit with the discomfort—the not-knowing, the lack of control over her safety.

This is what normal people do. They say goodbye and they wait and they trust.

I’m not normal. It’s possible that I’ve never even known what normal is. But for Hailey, I’m willing to try.