Page 53 of Stalkers Anonymous

“Better than being the doc who ignored red flags and ended up—” Rachel stops herself, pressing her lips together. “Sorry. That was too far.”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended. “It was.”

A heavy silence settles between us. Rachel picks at her pasta without eating it, which is how I know she feels genuinely bad. Rachel never lets food go to waste.

“I just don’t get it,” she finally says. “You’re one of the smartest people I know. You handle crisis situations in the ER like it’s nothing. But when it comes to your own safety, you just…shut down. Why?”

I stare at the table, unable to meet her eyes. The truth is complicated—layers of I don’t want to be a burden and I’ve handled worse on my own and if I admit this is serious, then it’s real. But underneath all of that is the truth.

“My entire childhood, my parents diminished everything,” I say quietly. “I was too anxious. Too dramatic. It was always it could be worse or we have it good, Hailey—be grateful for what you have. Or my dad’s favorite: Strong girls don’t get scared. They just get stronger. It was made abundantly clear to me that fear and complaints made me weak, and being weak made me…” My throat goes tight, and I have to swallow hard before I continue. “Being weak made a person unlovable. Plain and simple.”

Rachel’s expression softens. “Hailey…”

“And look, maybe they were right.” I shrug, trying to make it seem casual even though my chest feels tight. “Maybe I was just an anxious kid who needed to grow a backbone.”

Rachel reaches across the table to touch my hand. “Look at me.” When I hesitate, she gives my hand a squeeze. “Nothing should make a child unlovable to her parents. Especially not being afraid. And while I hope you decide to exorcise those demons in therapy, let me give you my non-professional but totally correct opinion on this: What’s happening with Lars Winters isn’t you being a scared little girl. There is actual, tangible evidence that he is paying way too much attention to you. I believe you have a reason to be scared, and I don’t think admitting it makes you weak. In fact, I think asking for help right now is the smartest, strongest thing you could do.”

I don’t respond. She’s right, and I know it. But her words have set something loose inside me, and it’s robbed me of all my words.

Rachel sighs and pulls her hand back. “Will you at least think about it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”

She watches me, something conflicted in her expression. Then she picks up her pasta again and changes the subject.

“Did you see that Dr. Martinez grew a mustache?”

I blink at the whiplash. “What?”

“A mustache, Hailey. On his face. It looks like a caterpillar died on his upper lip.”

“That’s…vivid.”

“It’s almost hypnotic. I couldn’t look away during rounds.”

I snort despite myself. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best, and you know it.”

We spend the next few minutes trading gossip about the department—who’s hooking up, who’s fighting, who definitely needs to invest in better deodorant. I almost forget about anonymous phone calls and keyed cars and the low-level dread that’s been simmering in my gut for weeks.

Almost.

The rest of my shift passes with the usual overnight variety of cases: an asthma exacerbation that responds well to treatment, an elderly woman with severe abdominal pain that will require surgical consultation, and a bar-fight victim with facial lacerations who remains belligerently drunk and keeps trying to show me photos of his ex-girlfriend. I decline repeatedly. He does not take the hint.

Around four a.m., I get an update from the OR. Brandon made it through surgery. Dr. Gupta was able to remove all six packets and the necrotic tissue, but had to resort to a partial penectomy. He’s recovering in post-op now, scheduled for a long course of IV antibiotics and follow-up debridements over the next week. He’ll have some scarring and a complicated recovery, but he gets to keep some of what he came in with. That’s going to be a tough conversation when he wakes up, but it won’t be happening in my department. Thank goodness.

By six a.m., I’ve completed my final notes before shift change. I’m halfway to the locker room, strategizing, when I spot Rachel talking to Frank, the head of hospital security. My stomach drops like I’ve just gone over the first hill of a roller coaster.

She sees me notice and has the grace to look guilty—but not enough to stop whatever she’s telling him.

I stand frozen, watching as Frank nods seriously, jotting something down on a notepad. Rachel gestures as she talks, and I can imagine exactly what she’s saying. My friend Hailey. Weird note. Keyed car. Anonymous phone call asking about her schedule. She won’t do anything about it because she has the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.

Part of me wants to march over there and interrupt, to downplay the whole thing and laugh it off as a misunderstanding. But my feet won’t move. And maybe—maybe there’s a tiny part of me that’s relieved someone else made the choice for me.

That doesn’t mean I’m not also furious.

Rachel finishes her conversation and walks toward me, her chin lifted like she’s bracing for a fight. She’s got The Rachel Look locked in place like a mask.