Page 125 of Stalkers Anonymous

“I am not handing this over to you.”

My eyebrow arches at that, and I shove my hand in my pocket. “Okay. And what does that mean exactly?”

“I want it done. I want him behind bars. But I am not just handing this to you and then disappearing. He’s not just your monster.”

“Okay…” I begin pacing back and forth on the sidewalk.

“He’s mine, Cole. The thing that literally waited for me in the dark. Whatever happens, I am the one calling the shots. Not you. Me. You do what I tell you to do, and you don’t do anything I haven’t told you to do.”

A long, slow breath leaves my body.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m yours. Whatever you say. I’ll do it the way you want it done, but I will not let you put yourself in a position to get hurt again. He’s not allowed to touch you, Hailey. You can’t ask me to let that happen.”

I hear her exhale. I’m not entirely sure it’s relief. It feels closer to permission. Permission to take his life if he tries to touch her again.

“Are you driving here?” she asks.

“You told me to stop, so I’m standing on the sidewalk, waiting for your next instruction.” There’s a hint of playfulness in my voice. We both need something to cling to right now.

She doesn’t hesitate to push right back, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t speed.”

“You know I’m going to.”

“Don’t get pulled over. We can’t have the police anywhere near us this week, Cole.”

I almost laugh. I don’t, but it’s in my throat anyway, because of course she’s already thinking like this. She is easily the smartest person I have ever met, and apparently she has just decided to apply that brain to the problem that is Lars Winters.

My little criminal.

I’m not entirely sure I’ll make it through this without completely spiraling and losing my mind, but I can find some peace in the fact that I have Hailey to ground me through it. I’m doing this for her. I’m doing this with her.

“I won’t get pulled over,” I tell her.

“Okay.”

“Hailey?” Now it’s my voice that’s cracking.

“Yeah?”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

There’s a long pause when all I can hear is the heart monitor beeping in the background.

“Just get here,” she says, refusing to acknowledge how I failed her.

“I’m coming.”

She hangs up, and I’m running for my truck.

…

What should have been a fifteen-minute drive to Memorial takes me less than ten.

The parking lot is mostly empty at this hour. I park crookedly in a visitor spot and do not bother to fix it. The automatic doors slide open for me. I’m immediately met by too-bright fluorescent lights and air that smells like the inside of every hospital I have ever been in: bleach, sickness, and plastic.

The short brunette woman at the registration desk looks up when she notices me approaching.

“I’m here for Hailey Brigham,” I say.