Page 72 of Stalkers Anonymous

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

This is exactly what Tracey was talking about. The rationalization. The justification.

But this is different. I’m not trying to control Hailey. If I know when she’s at work and when she’s at home, I’ll have an easier time monitoring Shitbag Lars’s location. Sure, it’s a bit of an overstep—but I’m only crossing the line with Hailey to help me keep tabs on someone who wants to do her harm.

If it was really no big deal, you’d just ask her for her schedule, the mini-Tyler who lives in my head says.

I imagine squashing mini-Tyler like a bug, then flicking his tiny insect carcass into oblivion.

The database query loads almost instantly. Employee records, shift schedules, contact information. Hailey Brigham, MD, Emergency Department. Scheduled for tonight, Wednesday, Thursday. Off Friday through Monday.

I stare at the information on my screen, feeling the familiar rush of satisfaction that comes with solving a puzzle. I found out what I wanted to know.

Except I know exactly what Tracey would say about this reasoning. About the way I’ve justified violating hospital security protocols to access personal information that Hailey didn’t choose to share with me.

I close the laptop quickly, as if the speed of closing it somehow reduces the severity of what I’ve done.

Fuck.

The whiskey burns going down, matching the burning sensation in my chest that feels uncomfortably like shame.

Three weeks into this program.

Three weeks of meetings and journaling and accountability check-ins.

And I still just hacked into a hospital database to look up a woman’s work schedule because it felt easier than just asking her. Felt more accessible than admitting I’m worried about her safety, that I still feel guilty about what happened to Emma, that I manage those feelings of failure by collecting information I shouldn’t necessarily have.

Hailey would understand. I just don’t want to ask her to.

The justifications I crafted three minutes ago already feel thin and pathetic. I was taking a shortcut that bypassed Hailey’s consent entirely.

I pour another whiskey and stare at the ceiling.

Maybe I do have a problem.

Chapter Sixteen: Hailey

The night shift is unusually quiet for a Thursday, which should make me grateful but instead puts me on edge. It’s the quiet shifts that often turn chaotic with little to no warning, and over time I’ve learned to appreciate steady workflow over deceptive calm.

I’m updating charts at the nurses’ station when Marco approaches with the expression I’ve come to dread—the one that means trouble is walking through our doors.

“Hailey,” he says quietly, glancing toward the waiting room. “Lars Winters is back.”

My heart sinks into my stomach, and I instantly feel like I’m going to be sick. I had pushed him to the back of my mind, where I wanted him to stay buried. Instead of telling Marco the truth, I say, “But he was just here. What’s his issue this time?”

“Same as always. Back pain, demanding his favorite medications, insisting on seeing you.” Marco’s jaw is tight with frustration. “I’ve already called security to be on standby, but they’re dealing with a psych hold in the west wing.”

I nod, steeling myself. “Which bed?”

“Four. Same as last time.” Marco pauses. “Look, after what happened before—the personal comments about your pet, knowing your schedule—maybe I should assign him to someone else.”

Part of me wants to give in and let someone else handle it. The other part of me is pissed off and tired of feeling on edge. Maybe it wouldn’t be the most horrible thing in the world to look the monster directly in the face. Then at least I’ll know if it’s him or not.

Strong girls don’t get scared. They just get stronger. Alright, Dad—let’s see if we can squeeze a little more juice out of this lemon.

“He’ll just refuse treatment until he gets his way. We both know how this goes. And we’re short-staffed tonight. Passing it off on someone else isn’t necessary when we’ll all end up in his room anyway.” I square my shoulders. “Let’s just get through this quickly and get him out of here.”

As the words come out, I feel an icy chill already settling in. I fucking hate Lars Winters. He’s progressed far beyond the typical drug-seeking behavior I’ve witnessed in other patients. Winters watches me like a predator monitoring its prey.