Page 78 of Stalkers Anonymous

“That’d be great, thank you.”

“Could we get some wheat toast, too?” I ask, catching the waitress before she leaves. I turn to Hailey, who’s watching me through watery eyes. “You should try to eat something.”

“I don’t know if I can right now.” She sighs, running a hand through her hair.

“Coffee on an empty stomach might make you more anxious than you already are.”

I nod, though my heart isn’t in it. Once we’re alone again, I grab her chin between my fingers and bring her face up to look at me. “Tell me what happened. Everything. Start at the beginning.”

Hailey takes a shaky breath and begins recalling her encounter with Winters. With each detail, my rage builds exponentially. He knows too much.

“He knows we’ve been going on dates,” she says, her unsteady voice barely above a whisper as she fights back tears. “I don’t know how long he’s been doing this—how long he’s been watching me.” Her face pales even more.

My jaw clenches involuntarily. This sick fuck has been watching us. Even though he only has an eye on me as a byproduct of stalking her, it feels deeply personal. She’s not his.

“Did you file another police report?” I ask, working to keep my voice level.

“Not yet. I called you instead.” She meets my eyes. “I know that probably seems weird, calling someone I only just started seeing, but—”

“It’s not weird,” I interrupt firmly. “You did the right thing. This guy is sick.”

I’m going to make sure he never bothers her again. The fact that she called me instead of anyone else—instead of the police—makes me feel things I probably shouldn’t this early on in a relationship.

But I can’t help it.

I’ve got it bad for her.

And she needs me right now.

“The hospital banned him, but that doesn’t stop him from showing up at my apartment or following me around town.” Hailey’s hands are trembling slightly as she lifts her coffee mug. “I feel like I’m being paranoid, but—”

“You’re not being paranoid,” I say sharply. “He described things he wouldn’t be able to unless he’d seen them, Hailey. He keyed your fucking car after telling you he was watching you. I don’t think he’s done, especially if he’s been banned from the hospital now. He’s stalking you.”

The word tastes bitter in my mouth, thick with irony. Here I am, a card-carrying member of Stalkers Anonymous, getting righteously angry about someone else’s bad behavior. The hypocrisy isn’t lost on me, but it also doesn’t slow down my protective fury.

“What should I do?” she asks, and the helplessness in her voice nearly breaks me.

“First thing in the morning, you file that police report. Get this on paper and documented officially. The police won’t be able to do anything if you don’t report what’s going on.” I’m already thinking through the entire process. “Second, you don’t go home alone tonight.”

“I can’t ask you to do that for m—”

I cut her off before she gets too far into her head. “You’re not asking. I’m offering.” I meet her eyes directly, holding her dulled, blue-gray gaze. “If you’re comfortable with it, I’ll sleep at your place tonight. Just so you’re not alone while this asshole is out there, doing fuck knows what.”

She hesitates, and I can see her weighing her options.

“Just for tonight,” I add. “Until we can figure out next steps. I want to make sure you’re safe.”

“Okay,” she says quietly, fidgeting with her hands. “Thank you.”

The soft relief in her voice makes my chest tighten. She’s putting her safety in my keeping tonight. The weight of her trust feels both thrilling and terrifying.

We eventually give in and order more than the toast she hasn’t touched yet—scrambled eggs for her, a burger for me—and spend the next hour talking through how we can upgrade her security system. I’m careful to make measured recommendations, instead of turning her apartment into Fort Knox like I want to. She doesn’t need to know how deep I can go.

By the time we leave the diner, we have a plan for her security system, and we’ve made notes to give to the police in the morning.

We drive separately to her apartment, and I use the time to conduct a secondary security assessment of her neighborhood. The Victorian house conversion sits on a tree-lined street with decent lighting but a few too many access points. Her building has a front entrance, back stairs, and a side alley that could provide cover for surveillance. And then there’s the fire escape leading right to her window.

“Home sweet home,” she says as I stand behind her, watching her unlock her door with unsteady hands.