My husband and I fell in love online.

It was second-time love for both of us. Or the first real thing, as we like to say.

He was divorced, I was separated. We were both in our late thirties.

It’s not as clichéd as it sounds, though. There was no Tinder, no Bumble, no eHarmony. We weren’t looking for love, least of all me.

I was busy picking up the pieces of myself, and my life. A life dismantled by the explosive end of my marriage, which while sudden to those on the outside, was in fact the culmination of a tumultuous, and heart-breaking, years-long breakdown.

So, although my life shattered suddenly, its structure was already weak, and the pieces – while many and scattered – were in view and within my grasp. My sense of self, on the other hand, had been chipped away at slowly; a shard here, a fragment there, some left lying around, others lost forever. That’s what breakups do. Especially this kind. My focus was on my children; my scars were fresh.

Our bond developed unexpectedly over Facebook Messenger, a months-long exchange of written dialogue that triggered a pull towards each other. But there was no grand reveal when our first official date did eventually take place. We’d met in real life a couple of years earlier, so we had some idea of what to expect. It was just the feelings that had changed.

Our sons played junior AFL at the local footy club, and were good friends, so we saw each other at training and games and at the occasional kids’ get-together. At best, we were acquaintances. It was at one of these catch-ups that an ostensibly minor, almost funny-at-the-time, incident triggered the first private Facebook message, which ironically became the springboard for our relationship.

Stalking got us talking.

That’s what we said to each other during those first couple of months. We were joking, of course. We tossed out the word ‘stalking’ flippantly, with little regard to its true meaning, like most of us do.

Who hasn’t joked about stalking a new colleague, a new boss or a friend’s next date?

‘What a stalker!’ we might say in jest, in reference to someone showing a particularly high level of romantic interest, even an overly zealous friend.

It’s a popular film and television subcategory too – a crazy ex, an obsessive student, a would-be killer who won’t take no for an answer. Who can resist? I admit I’m still drawn to stories of the obsessed, although these days they trigger an underlying unease, felt deep in the pit of my stomach. What if?

It’s one of the reasons I decided to write this book. To examine the cause and consequence of society’s collective dismissal when it comes to the serious impacts of stalking.

Attitudes that trivialise and underestimate the mental upheaval that can unleash suddenly, or creep up slowly (as it did for me). Like a dripping tap – annoying at first, but before long, each drip seems louder, the frequency higher. Soon you begin to hear it even when it’s not in the room. It keeps you awake at night and eventually starts to drive you mad.

It wasn’t until I began to research this crime, as a result of my own experience, that I discovered just how widespread stalking is and why it’s critical that community attitudes change.

‘Stalking is romantic’, ‘victims are to blame’, and ‘stalking isn’t serious’ are some of the underlying beliefs held by large sections of the community.1 But it’s not just the general public who uphold these attitudes. It’s also law enforcement and even victims themselves. It’s little wonder there’s such a vast discrepancy between rates of victim-reported stalking and stalking arrests and convictions (and that’s without factoring in the many unreported incidents).2

So, while we would come to know the real meaning of the word eventually, it was stalking, in the colloquial sense, that got us talking.

Let me explain.

It was a stinking hot day, almost a year before the real story begins. I arrived late to an inner-city apartment building with my son, Ben. We were meeting some of Ben’s footy mates and their parents for an off-season sausage sizzle, a game of cricket and maybe a swim in the complex’s communal area.

My hair was unwashed, thrown up in a bun, and I was feeling unwell, made worse by the intensity of the Queensland sun and lack of shade. Still, I was happy to be taking a break from the tension that had engulfed my life.

My 12-year marriage was all but over. During those final stages, and the year leading up to it, I’d learnt to compartmentalise my life – broken at home, protected with family, carefree around friends and totally in control everywhere else. A facade, of course, but it was convincing – to me as much as anyone else. So, while once I’d have tried to avoid a day out with people I barely knew, on this day it was a welcome escape from the crippling pressure that had become a regular part of my daily life.

The day unfolded like any other get-together, with parents making the type of small talk parents make.

‘Been busy at work?’

‘The school holidays are a juggle, aren’t they?’

‘Isn’t it nice for the kids to get together outside of the footy season?’

Nod. Smile.

Adam – just another parent back then – stood at a barbecue with a couple of other dads, while the rest of us divided into the usual cliques. It was a nice spot, with expansive views of the city and lush green trees, the combined sounds of carolling birds and noisy boys a joyful blend.

We had the area pretty much to ourselves. There was one other woman there, though, and she caught my eye for that reason. She sat away from the group with her two children. I didn’t recognise the kids from footy, but they looked around the same age.

Close enough to be noticed, but far enough away to avoid any risk of impromptu conversation, she kept her distance as the rest of the group ate cheap snags in bread and drank soft drink from plastic cups. Cricket was next, and I dutifully took on my role as Instagram Mum, whipping out my phone to take a few snaps.

As the hours passed, the heat intensified and I started to feel dizzy. My in-control persona was beginning to fade with the knowledge that I’d be heading home shortly. Absentmindedly, I flicked through the photos I’d just taken when I heard a woman’s voice.

‘Are you taking photos of Adam?’

At least, I thought that’s what she said. I glanced up to see the back of the woman’s head as she walked past. Was she talking to me?

‘I’m taking photos of Ben,’ I muttered in response, but she didn’t look back. Maybe I’d misheard. Bemused, I glanced at the woman standing next to me, wondering if she’d heard what I heard. The look on her face – raised eyebrows, her mouth a cross between a cringe and a smirk – told me she had.

It was just after 9 pm, and I was exhausted from a long day of sun and small talk. The kids were out cold and I was slumped, alone, on the couch, ready for a date with Netflix.

A message request from ‘Karissa Owens’.3

It was the woman from the barbecue. It seemed odd, but since she obviously knew Adam, I shot back a neutral response.

I shared the story with my mum and a couple of friends, a humorous anecdote, nothing more. Until, about a week later, as I strolled through Westfield:

I rummaged around in my bag, digging through lip gloss, old wrappers and tampons, and pulled out my phone.

‘Sure,’ I reply, although I’m wary.

Alarm bells ring, but I’m curious.

Ok, I’m out! I thought. I had more important things on my mind, like preparing to tell my children their father and I had...