Page 66 of Stalkers Anonymous

“A little,” I admit. A massive understatement. “Guy sounds unhinged.”

“He’s probably harmless. Just a patient who got fixated. It happens sometimes in the ER—people mistaking medical care for something more personal.”

She’s wrong. Winters isn’t harmless. His search history alone tells a different story—one she doesn’t know about. And never will, if I have anything to say about it. But I can’t tell her that without revealing how I got the information.

“Still,” I say carefully. “It’s good that security knows.”

“I guess.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

We sit in silence for a moment, watching the light change over the water. A family of ducks paddles by, the mother leading her ducklings in a neat line. The wholesomeness of the scene is a stark contrast to the dark bent of my thoughts about Lars Winters.

“Anyway,” Hailey says, shaking off the serious mood. “Enough about my creepy patient. Tell me something about you. Something I don’t know yet.”

“Hmm.” I bite at my lower lip. “I know I told you I can’t cook, but I do make really good pancakes. It’s the one thing I can cook.”

She laughs. “That’s your deep, dark secret? Pancake proficiency?”

“I take breakfast very seriously.”

“Noted. What else?” There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Like she actually wants to get to know me.

“I played piano as a kid. Hated it then, kind of miss it now.”

“That’s actually sweet.” She grins at me. “What else?”

“I’m running out of fun facts here.”

“Fine, I’ll go.” She taps her chin, thinking. “I was a competitive swimmer in high school. Almost went to state but got mono junior year and missed qualifications.”

“Tragic.”

“Devastating. My butterfly stroke was legendary.”

“I’d pay to see that.”

“You absolutely would not. I haven’t been in a pool in years. I’d probably sink.”

The conversation flows easily after that. We trade stories and small revelations as we continue our walk through the park. She tells me about her college roommate who became a professional dog groomer. I tell her about the time Jack and I got lost in the Rockies for three days because neither of us would admit we’d taken a wrong turn.

It feels normal. Easy. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.

As we approach the final stretch of the trail, the sculptures become increasingly abstract. There’s one that looks like a giant metal pretzel, one that might be two people embracing or possibly fighting, and one that I’m ninety percent sure is just a manufacturing defect.

“‘Unity,’” Hailey reads from the placard next to the maybe-embracing, maybe-fighting figures. “See? It’s romantic.”

“Or they’re wrestling.”

“Romantic wrestling.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

She shoves my shoulder playfully, and I catch her hand, pulling her closer. We’re alone on this stretch of the path, the nearest family a good hundred yards behind us.

“Hey,” I say softly.

“Hey yourself.”

“I think I’m really starting to like you.”