Chapter Fifteen Cole
The community center basement smells like dust, stale coffee, and poor life choices.
I arrive precisely on time for my third IBSG meeting, no longer bothering with the dilemma of being early or late.
This is my reality now—Tuesday nights in a fluorescent-lit purgatory with six other people who can’t seem to leave well enough alone.
At least we’re consistent.
Tyler nods as I take my usual seat, his expression carrying that particular blend of encouragement and concern that I’ve come to expect.
The others filter in one by one: Grant with his permanently tousled hair and the camera bag he refuses to leave in his car, Austen sliding his phone into his pocket like he wasn’t just looking someone up, Zach looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else, and Jessica clutching her ereader like a security blanket.
We’re quite the crew. If dysfunction were an Olympic sport, we’d sweep the podium.
Tracey enters last, clipboard in hand, that same neutral therapist expression cemented on her face.
“Good evening, everyone,” she begins, settling into her chair.
“Before we jump into our progress reports, I want to remind you that this is a safe space for honesty. Growth requires acknowledging setbacks as much as celebrating successes. Who would like to begin tonight?” She scans the circle with a raised eyebrow.
Grant raises his hand. “I had something happen this week. A wedding I was photographing. The bride reminded me of someone I used to…know.”
He pauses for dramatic effect, then continues, “I found myself taking extra shots, focusing on her more than the groom.”
“And how did you handle it when you recognized what was happening?” Tracey prompts.
“I deleted the extra photos when I got home. Told myself it was an artistic choice at first, but I knew damn well what it really was.” Grant’s voice carries that familiar tone of rehearsed confession.
“It was my obsession with getting the perfect primal shot. The way she smiled. I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to capture it. ”
Tracey nods approvingly, making a note. “That’s excellent self-awareness, Grant. Recognizing the pattern before it escalated.”
The conversation continues around the circle. Austen claims he had an uneventful week, but his bouncing knee and fidgeting thumbs suggest that his definition of “uneventful” might differ from the dictionary’s.
Jessica talks about avoiding her ex’s social media for a full week—apparently a personal record. She’s practically glowing with pride about it, which is both impressive and deeply sad.
“Seven whole days,” she says. “I almost broke on Thursday, but I called my sister instead.”
“And how did that feel?”
“Terrible. But better than the alternative.”
Each confession is met with Tracey’s poker face and probing follow-up questions. The whole process feels grimly performative, like we’re all competing for Most Improved Stalker.
“Cole?” Tracey’s attention shifts to me. “How has your week been?”
“Fine,” I say automatically, then catch myself. They expect more. “Good, actually. I went for a walk around a lake with the woman I mentioned last week. The doctor.”
Tracey’s pen hovers over her clipboard. “That’s interesting. Can you tell us more about it?”
The way she says “interesting” puts me immediately on edge. Like going for a walk is somehow inherently suspicious.
“We met at a park. Walked the sculpture trail. Talked for a couple hours. Made plans to see each other again.” I keep my tone deliberately neutral. “It went well.”
“And during this date, how did you manage your tendencies?”
“I noticed I was scanning the environment more than necessary,” I admit. “Assessing other people on the trail. Actually, she was the one who recognized what I was doing. She called me out. I was a little shocked, but it was good to know how I’m coming across to other people.”
I don’t mention how hard I studied myself in the CCTV footage the night Lars Winters keyed Hailey’s car.
“Good.” Tracey makes a note. “And afterward? When it was time to part ways?”
“It was hard to watch her drive away,” I say honestly. “I wanted to make sure she got to work safely. I, uh… I struggled to trust that she could take care of herself.”
Grant shifts in his seat. “Man, that’s rough. I understand the urge to just…check on them. Make sure they’re okay.”
I shoot him a look that I hope conveys how little I appreciate being lumped in with his particular brand of obsession. “It’s not really the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” Tracey asks, and there’s genuine curiosity in her voice rather than accusation. “Can you explain the difference as you see it?”
“Grant’s issue is his inability to recognize when he’s making people uncomfortable. Mine isn’t.” I keep my voice even, but I can feel the tension building in my shoulders. “My issues stem from wanting to make men uncomfortable. Specifically, bad men who hurt women.”
I let the last part land with a pointed glance in Grant’s direction. He has the grace to look uncomfortable.
“That’s a fair distinction,” Tracey says, nodding slowly. “We each have a different history. Our patterns emerge from a need to protect people we care about when we perceive them to be in danger. Would you say that’s accurate?”
“Yes.” The acknowledgment makes my shoulders ease a bit, but the look in Tracey’s eye reminds me that she knows the truth about Emma and Shitbag Steve.
She’s pushing me toward the edge of my lies, where I’ll have no choice but to reveal the whole truth.
“In the military, that instinct kept people alive. It’s hard to turn it off just because the context changed. ”
“Except in the military, you had sanctioned targets and clear parameters,” Tracey continues. “The problem arose when you applied those same tactics to civilian situations without consent or legal authority.”
She’s not wrong. She’s never fucking wrong.
“The point,” Tracey continues, “is that your pattern isn’t about romantic obsession. It’s about control. About believing that you’re the only one capable of keeping someone safe, and that this belief justifies crossing boundaries without consent.”
Goddammit, Tracey. Stop being so fucking accurate.
“So when you mention wanting to make sure this woman got to work safely,” she says, “I’m not concerned about romantic fixation. I’m concerned about the protective impulse that led you here in the first place. Is there a reason you’re feeling particularly protective of her?”
“She has a stalker,” I say flatly. I can’t hide this from them forever. “An actual one. He left a threatening note on her windshield, then keyed her car while we were on a date.”
The energy in the room shifts drastically. Jessica’s eyes go wide. Zach looks up from his fascinated study of the floor tiles. They’re all shocked by the idea of a real stalker.
“And your response to this has been…?” Tracey prompts.
I scrub a hand over my face. I can’t tell them what I’ve done. It’ll earn me another six months in this hellhole basement. “She’s in danger. Real danger. And she’s not taking it seriously enough. Someone has to—”
“Protect her?” Tracey finishes. “Even if she hasn’t asked for protection? Even if she doesn’t know you’re doing it?”
The words hang in the air, uncomfortably familiar.
“It’s different,” I insist. “He’s dangerous. I’m not.”
“You don’t think every person in this room hasn’t told themselves that exact same thing?” Tracey’s voice is gentle but pointed. “That they were different from the real threats?”
“I’m nothing like—”
“To be clear, I’m not saying you’re a danger to this woman.
I’m saying your thought patterns are similar to someone who is.
” She leans forward slightly. “The belief that your assessment of danger supersedes someone else’s autonomy.
The conviction that your intentions justify your methods.
These are the patterns we’re trying to interrupt. ”
I don’t have a good response to that. There’s nothing I can say to get myself out of this hole I’ve dug.
The room is quiet for a moment. Grant is studying his shoes. Austen has gone very still. Zach looks like he’s experiencing something dangerously close to self-reflection.
“Here’s what I want you to consider,” Tracey continues.
“You’ve identified a situation where someone you care about may be in danger.
That’s not inherently problematic. The question is: what’s your role?
Are you a partner she’s chosen to confide in, working together to address the threat?
Or are you operating as a shadow security team, gathering intelligence without her knowledge or consent? ”
“She knows I’m concerned,” I say.
“Does she know you’re this concerned? Does she know the extent you’ve gone to protect those you love?”
No. She doesn’t.
My silence is all the confirmation Tracey needs.
“I didn’t think so.” She makes a note. “For this week, I’d like you to consider the difference between supporting someone and surveilling them. Both come from a place of caring. Only one respects another person’s autonomy.”
“What if respecting her autonomy gets her hurt?”
“Then you’ll have to accept that whatever happens is a consequence of a capable adult making decisions about her personal safety. Come what may.” Tracey’s expression softens slightly. “I know that’s difficult. But the alternative—making those choices for her—is what landed you here.”
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur.
Jessica shares some strategies she’s trying to help resist the urge to check social media.
Grant talks about setting up accountability structures with his photography assistant.
Zach grunts his way through a commitment to stay away from his ex-client’s gym permanently.
When it’s my turn for weekly commitments, I choose my words carefully.
“I’ll resist the urge to hover or manage the…stalker situation,” I say, then add, “unless she asks for my help.”
Tracey nods approvingly, but I can see the skepticism in her eyes. She’s been doing this too long to take my words at face value.
Outside the community center, Tyler catches up with me in the parking lot.
“That was intense,” he says, falling into step beside me.
“That’s one word for it.”
“You handled it well. It was important for you to push back against Tracey. A lot of people in the group conflate everything, but your shit is…specific.”
“That’s super reassuring.”
Tyler laughs. “Something like that.” He pauses at my car. “So you’re researching this guy?”
I’ve learned I can’t lie outright to Tyler—he’s too sharp—but I can give him a portion of the truth and hope he’ll accept it.
“Here and there. I found out he uses single-ply toilet paper,” I offer in an attempt to lighten the subject, then unlock my car. “But yes. I’ve done some research.”
“Jesus.” Tyler shakes his head, but he’s smiling mischievously. “Single-ply? That’s how you know someone’s truly fucked.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Look, for what it’s worth—I don’t think you’re wrong that your girl—”
“Hailey,” I interrupt. The correction surprises me, and I can see from Tyler’s expression that he’s surprised, too. I haven’t exactly been forthcoming with details about my personal life. But Hailey is more than “my girl,” and I need someone in this group to know it.
“Hailey,” Tyler continues, putting enough respect on her name that I could almost imagine we’re friends, “might be in danger. But Tracey’s not wrong, either. There’s a version of this where you help, and a version where you become part of the problem.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I meet his eyes. “I’m trying.”
Tyler nods, apparently satisfied with that answer. “Text me if you need to talk through anything before our check-in on Thursday. That’s what the buddy system is for.”
“Will do.”
The drive home is quieter than usual. Tracey’s words keep echoing in my head, annoyingly persistent.
The thing is, I know she’s right. But knowing something and feeling it are different things entirely. And I can’t stand that she sees right through me.
At home, I pour myself a whiskey and open my laptop, intending to work on some legitimate security consulting. But my hands seem to have other ideas, navigating to a secure browser almost automatically.
The hospital’s network architecture appears on my screen before I fully realize what I’m doing. Memorial’s systems, the ones I helped secure months ago. The employee database is right there, protected by encryption I designed myself.
I could find Hailey’s schedule in under two minutes. Just a quick look to see when she’s working this week.
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.