Page 89 of Stalkers Anonymous

Fuck.

That works, too.

He kisses me again, and this time his hands roam freely—my back, my waist, the curve of my hips. Every touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake. I’m burning up from the inside out, and I never want it to stop.

My own hands aren’t idle. I explore the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the way his muscles tense and flex under my fingertips. When I reach his belt buckle, he hisses through his teeth.

“Hailey—”

“I want you,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. “I want—”

The sound of shattering glass explodes through the apartment.

For one horrible, frozen second, I don’t understand what’s happening. Cole moves before I can process it—shoving me behind him, his body becoming a shield between me and the living room.

“Get down,” he orders, his voice completely different now. Sharp. Military.

“What the fuck—”

And then I see it.

A brick. Sitting in the middle of my living room floor, surrounded by a halo of broken glass from my now-shattered window. Cold night air pours through the jagged hole, making the curtains billow like ghosts.

My brain refuses to accept what I’m seeing.

“Is that…” I can’t finish the sentence.

Cole is already moving, crouching low as he approaches the brick. There’s something wrapped around it—paper, secured with a rubber band. He pulls it free, reads it, and his entire body goes rigid.

“What does it say?” My voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from someone else.

He doesn’t answer immediately. When he turns back to me, his expression is murderous.

“Cole. What does it say?”

He hands me the paper, and I read the words scrawled in messy handwriting:

WATCH YOUR BACK. I’M COMING.

The world tilts.

I’m suddenly very aware that I’m standing in my destroyed living room, in my bra, holding a note from my stalker.

He was watching. Has he been watching us all night? Was he just…watching…while we…?

“Oh God.” The words come out choked. “Oh God, oh God, oh God—”

Cole’s arms are around me instantly, holding me against his chest. “Breathe. Hailey, look at me. Breathe.”

“He was here.” I’m shaking now, my whole body trembling. “He was right outside. He saw—he was watching—”

“I know. I know.” Cole’s voice is steady, but I can feel the tension in his body, the barely restrained violence coiled beneath his calm exterior. “We need to call the police.”

“Again,” I laugh, but it comes out wrong—too high, too sharp. “We’re calling the police again. How many times do I have to call before they actually do something?”

“As many times as it takes.” He guides me away from the broken glass, scooping up my sweater from where I tossed it on the floor. He re-dresses me, his hands gentle but full of tension, and walks us to the kitchen where my phone is charging. “This is evidence and vandalism. They have to take it seriously.”

Do they, though? The hospital didn’t. Sharon didn’t. My parents wouldn’t—would they?