Page 71 of Stalkers Anonymous

“I didn’t think so.” She makes a note. “For this week, I’d like you to consider the difference between supporting someone and surveilling them. Both come from a place of caring. Only one respects another person’s autonomy.”

“What if respecting her autonomy gets her hurt?”

“Then you’ll have to accept that whatever happens is a consequence of a capable adult making decisions about her personal safety. Come what may.” Tracey’s expression softens slightly. “I know that’s difficult. But the alternative—making those choices for her—is what landed you here.”

The rest of the meeting passes in a blur. Jessica shares some strategies she’s trying to help resist the urge to check social media. Grant talks about setting up accountability structures with his photography assistant. Zach grunts his way through a commitment to stay away from his ex-client’s gym permanently.

When it’s my turn for weekly commitments, I choose my words carefully.

“I’ll resist the urge to hover or manage the…stalker situation,” I say, then add, “unless she asks for my help.”

Tracey nods approvingly, but I can see the skepticism in her eyes. She’s been doing this too long to take my words at face value.

Outside the community center, Tyler catches up with me in the parking lot.

“That was intense,” he says, falling into step beside me.

“That’s one word for it.”

“You handled it well. It was important for you to push back against Tracey. A lot of people in the group conflate everything, but your shit is…specific.”

“That’s super reassuring.”

Tyler laughs. “Something like that.” He pauses at my car. “So you’re researching this guy?”

I’ve learned I can’t lie outright to Tyler—he’s too sharp—but I can give him a portion of the truth and hope he’ll accept it.

“Here and there. I found out he uses single-ply toilet paper,” I offer in an attempt to lighten the subject, then unlock my car. “But yes. I’ve done some research.”

“Jesus.” Tyler shakes his head, but he’s smiling mischievously. “Single-ply? That’s how you know someone’s truly fucked.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Look, for what it’s worth—I don’t think you’re wrong that your girl—”

“Hailey,” I interrupt. The correction surprises me, and I can see from Tyler’s expression that he’s surprised, too. I haven’t exactly been forthcoming with details about my personal life. But Hailey is more than “my girl,” and I need someone in this group to know it.

“Hailey,” Tyler continues, putting enough respect on her name that I could almost imagine we’re friends, “might be in danger. But Tracey’s not wrong, either. There’s a version of this where you help, and a version where you become part of the problem.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I meet his eyes. “I’m trying.”

Tyler nods, apparently satisfied with that answer. “Text me if you need to talk through anything before our check-in on Thursday. That’s what the buddy system is for.”

“Will do.”

The drive home is quieter than usual. Tracey’s words keep echoing in my head, annoyingly persistent.

The thing is, I know she’s right. But knowing something and feeling it are different things entirely. And I can’t stand that she sees right through me.

At home, I pour myself a whiskey and open my laptop, intending to work on some legitimate security consulting. But my hands seem to have other ideas, navigating to a secure browser almost automatically.

The hospital’s network architecture appears on my screen before I fully realize what I’m doing. Memorial’s systems, the ones I helped secure months ago. The employee database is right there, protected by encryption I designed myself.

I could find Hailey’s schedule in under two minutes. Just a quick look to see when she’s working this week.