Page 128 of Stalkers Anonymous

I made myself watch.

I made myself watch every fucking second of it. The grainy frames, the shadows, the moment Hailey walked toward her car alone with a small shopping bag in her hand and Lars Winters stepped out from behind a concrete pillar like the rabid fucking animal he is. I watched her fight. I watched her almost win. I watched her jab her thumb in his eye and elbow his nose and sprint for the stairwell, and I watched her leave a trail of blood—her blood—across forty feet of concrete because I wasn’t there.

That’s the image I want in my head when we find him.

The second thing I did was call Tyler. I told him I’d be out of touch for three days and would be missing the next IBSG meeting. I asked him not to worry.

I lied about why.

I told him Hailey called and we’re on speaking terms again, and that I needed time to process. I said I wouldn’t be doing anything stupid, that I’d be back in the chair at the next meeting. He bought it. Or maybe he didn’t, but he gave me space nonetheless. It doesn’t really matter. I’ve stopped trying to read Tyler the last few days, because reading Tyler costs me energy I don’t have to spare.

The third thing I did was start over from scratch on Lars Winters. Everything I had on him before, I’d been gathering quietly, methodically, from a distance.

I’ve mapped his last six months. Every place he’s slept. Every place he’s eaten. Every job he’s had and lost. The two women he hurt before Hailey, neither of whom pressed charges, both of whom moved out of state within a year of coming into contact with him.

I’ve identified four people he might run to. A cousin in Greeley who works at a body shop. An old college roommate who lives outside Loveland and posts a lot of cryptic shit about “real men” on Facebook. A mother in Colorado Springs who’s bailed him out twice. And a Reddit user I’m ninety percent sure is him, who’s been venting in subreddits about “bitches who think they’re better than you” for the past eleven months.

I’ve printed all of it. The walls of my living room are covered. Red strings, push pins, and everything else I could need to create the most elaborate evidence board outside a Hollywood thriller. I caught my own reflection in the kitchen window an hour ago, and I looked like a monster—which struck me as ironic enough that I actually laughed out loud.

The tracking app pings every thirty minutes on the dot. Shitstain Lars (a previously unfathomed downgrade from Shitbag) hasn’t been at his apartment in four days. The last ping I got from his phone was outside a bar in Greeley, and then his phone went dark. He’s either smashed it or pulled the battery. He’s smarter than he looks. I should’ve figured he’d ditch the phone after he ran from the parking garage.

That’s fine. There are other ways to find people. I’ve done it before.

And I’m doing it again.

Hailey is being released tomorrow morning.

I haven’t seen her in person since the night of the attack, but we’ve been texting. Long, detailed exchanges where I give her updates of what I’ve found and what I think he might do next based on a pattern analysis of his last six months.

I’m on my second pot of coffee when the buzzer to my apartment goes off. I force myself to look away from my screen and glance at the clock on the microwave. It’s 8:47 in the morning. I’m not expecting anyone.

The buzzer goes off again, twice this time.

I drag myself off the couch and over to the window, pushing up the blinds just enough to see the street. Tyler’s beat-up van is parked out front. I roll my fingers over my temples a few times, then cross the room to press the intercom. “Yeah?”

Tyler’s voice is loud and clear as it plays through the speaker. “Open the door, Cole.”

What the fuck?

“What are you doing here?”

There’s little patience in his voice. “Just open the door.”

“I’m really not in a place where—”

“Cole. Open the goddamn door.”

There’s an edge in his voice I’ve never heard before. I consider telling him to fuck off, but I ultimately decide against it and press the button to let him in.

Seconds later, I hear an entire stampede of footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Tyler,” I yell into the intercom. “Who is with you?”

But he doesn’t answer.

I unlock my door and crack it open just as they round the landing.

Tyler is in front, but behind him are Jessica and Grant, with Austen and Zach bringing up the rear. The whole fucking group, marching up my stairs at quarter to nine in the fucking morning.