Page 90 of Stalkers Anonymous

But Rachel thinks it’s serious. So does Cole. And dammit, so do I.

Cole dials 911 while I stand there, staring at the brick like a ticking time bomb.

He’s coming.

“Hailey.” Cole’s hand cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Stay with me. You’re spiraling.”

“How can you tell?”

“You stopped breathing.” He strokes his thumb across my cheekbone. “The police are on their way. We’re going to document everything. And then you’re coming home with me, because you’re not staying here tonight.”

“I can’t just—”

“You can. You will.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “This isn’t up for debate. He knows where you live, and he just proved he’s willing to escalate. You’re not safe here.”

I want to argue. I want to insist that I can take care of myself, that I don’t need to be rescued, that I’m not some damsel in distress.

But I look at the brick on my floor, the glass glittering like deadly confetti, the words burned into my memory…and I can’t find the energy to protest.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”

Cole pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “We’re going to figure this out. I promise.”

I want to believe him.

I really, really want to believe him.

Chapter Twenty: Cole

I sit in my car across the street from the community center, watching people filter into the building for various meetings—AA, grief counseling, divorce support, a kid’s birthday party, and buried in the basement, group therapy for people who don’t know how to take a fucking hint.

I should be walking through those doors right now, taking my seat in that circle of metal folding chairs, listening to Tracey guide us through another hour of self-examination and accountability.

Instead, I start my engine and drive away.

Because fuck that.

The annoyance from last week still burns in my chest. Tracey’s idea that I’m incapable of interacting with people in normal ways—that every thought I have about Hailey is suspicious and should be analyzed under a fucking microscope—pisses me off. I don’t deserve that shit. And then there’s Tyler, who’s been blowing up my phone all week and won’t accept the hint that I don’t want to talk to him. He’s digging for information that isn’t his.

I drive through downtown Fort Collins, past the coffee shop where Hailey and I crossed paths, past the hospital where she’s just starting her shift. My phone sits on the passenger seat, two different applications running simultaneously. One tracks Lars Winters’s location via his cell phone—a little digital penetration that took me exactly four minutes to execute. Another monitors police scanner activity for any calls related to Hailey’s address or the hospital.

I know it’s wrong. I know it violates unspoken boundaries, goes against every principle IBSG tried to shove down my throat.

But I also know about Lars Winters and the patterns he followed with previous victims. I know the hospital administration is more concerned about profiting off the sick fuck than prioritizing staff safety.

Someone has to protect Hailey. And if that someone has to be me, so be it.

Lars Winters’s location shows him at home, eight blocks from her building.

He’s too close.

I pull into the parking lot of the twenty-four-hour diner where Hailey and I met and open my laptop, connecting to the secure network I’ve established. The dashboard I’ve created looks like something from a spy thriller—multiple data streams, location overlays, alert systems that will notify me if certain parameters are triggered.

It’s been three days since I started full surveillance on Lars Winters, and I’m more concerned than before.

He’s methodical. Every morning at nine a.m., he drives past Hailey’s apartment building, slowly, like he’s checking for her car. He’s mapped what I assume to be her jogging route, which means he already knows where and when she’s most vulnerable. Yesterday afternoon, he spent two hours sitting in the hospital parking garage, positioned to watch the private employee exit.

He’s full-on stalking her.