My ex-wife is suing me for stalking her across Ontario. I’ve been recovering from spinal surgery…

Kevin stood up, face flushed.

“I don’t have to listen to this. Patricia, we’re leaving,”

he said.

But Marcus Webb chose that moment to enter the conference room. He’d been waiting outside, and Graham had texted him our signal. He placed a folder on the table.

“Kevin Dutton, also known as Kevin Marshall, also known as Dennis Maxwell,”

Marcus began.

“Wanted in British Columbia on two counts of aggravated stalking. Violated a restraining order in Vancouver last year.”

He placed a photograph on the table. It was photographed three days ago, showing him entering a costume shop in Ottawa where he purchased a gray wig and wire-rimmed glasses. Patricia gasped.

Kevin bolted for the door, but Marcus was faster. In three steps, he had Kevin against the wall, arm twisted behind his back. Through the glass wall of the conference room, I could see two Ottawa police officers entering the office.

“Patricia didn’t know,”

Kevin said as the officers cuffed him.

“She had nothing to do with this. I was protecting her from you. You’re the threat. You’re the one who—”

“I was in a hospital bed,”

I said quietly.

“For 4 months.”

The full story came out over the next few weeks. Kevin Dutton had indeed created the Dennis Maxwell persona to get close to Patricia. He’d researched her online, found out about her divorce, and positioned himself as exactly the kind of man she’d fall for after years with me: stable, attentive, and seemingly successful.

But Kevin had a pathological jealousy of anyone from his targets’ past lives. He’d done it before in BC, driving one woman’s ex-boyfriend to attempt suicide with relentless harassment made to look like it came from the woman herself. When he learned about my surgery, he’d seen an opportunity.

He wanted to make me look like a stalker while I was physically helpless to defend myself. He wanted to drive a permanent wedge between Patricia and me to make sure I’d never be part of her life again. He’d hired a photographer friend from Vancouver, someone who owed him money, to follow Patricia and photograph moments where I could be seen in the background.

The photographer had worn a wig, glasses, and clothes similar to mine. They’d coordinated it all via encrypted messaging apps and thought they’d been clever. The phone spoofing had been even simpler.

Services exist online that let you make calls from fake numbers. Kevin had used my number to leave increasingly disturbing voicemails to Patricia, playing the part of an obsessed ex-husband. Patricia had saved them all, which the police confiscated as evidence.

At Kevin’s apartment, investigators found a wall covered in photographs of Patricia. There were hundreds of them going back months before they’d supposedly met. There were surveillance notes, her schedule, her routines, and her favorite places.

He’d been stalking her long before he’d introduced himself at that book club. The criminal charges against Kevin piled up: identity theft, criminal harassment, and fraud. When they dug deeper, they found violations of restraining orders from British Columbia.

His bail was set at $100,000, which he couldn’t make. Patricia came to see me three weeks after Kevin’s arrest. I was doing physiotherapy at a clinic near my apartment, slowly rebuilding strength.

She waited until my session finished, then asked if we could talk. We went to a quiet corner of the waiting room. She looked exhausted.

“I’m dropping the lawsuit,”

she said.

“Obviously. And I’m sorry, Robert. I’m so sorry. I should have known you wouldn’t. You’re not that kind of person.”

“But the photos, the calls, it all seemed so real,”

she continued.

“He was very convincing. I feel so stupid. He knew exactly what to say, what I wanted to hear, and all the while he was—”

She started crying. Despite everything, I felt sorry for her. She’d been manipulated just as much as I had, maybe more.

“Patricia, this wasn’t your fault,”

I said.

“He’s done this before. He’s a professional at manipulation.”

“The police said he’d been watching me for months before we met,”

she said.

“Months, Robert, learning everything about me, planning it all out. That’s so violating.”

We talked for an hour. We really talked for the first time in years. She told me about the fear she’d felt thinking I was following her, and the way it had made her feel unsafe in her own city.

I told her about the betrayal of being accused while lying helpless in a hospital bed, unable to defend myself.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

she asked.

“Graham says he’s looking at serious prison time,”

I answered.

“Between the violations from BC and what he did here, probably 8 to 10 years.”

She nodded slowly.

“Good. That’s good. People should be protected from people like him.”

The lawsuit was formally dropped in September. Graham filed a countersuit against Kevin for defamation, identity theft, and emotional distress. We’ll probably never see any money from it, but it’s on his record.

Patricia moved to her sister’s cottage in Muskoka temporarily. She needed space from Ottawa and all the memories there. We exchange occasional texts now.

Nothing deep, just checking in. The marriage is over, and we’ll stay that way. But we’re not enemies anymore.

We survived something together, even if we didn’t know we were in it together at the time. My back is slowly improving. I’m up to walking 40 minutes a day now and starting to think about what comes next.

Maybe teaching construction management at a community college—something that uses my experience without destroying what’s left of my spine. The whole experience taught me something important that I wish I’d understood years ago. When someone’s trying to destroy your reputation, the truth might not be immediately obvious to others, but it’s your most powerful weapon.

Documentation, evidence, facts—these things matter more than emotions or assumptions. Patricia believed Kevin because he gave her something that felt true. But feeling true isn’t the same as being true.

I also learned that predators like Kevin count on their victims being isolated and unable to defend themselves. He chose me as a target because I was in a hospital bed, because he thought I’d be powerless. What he didn’t count on was that even from that bed I could still gather evidence, could still build a defense, and could still find people like Graham and Marcus who believed in the truth.

And here’s something I tell young people now when I get the chance: technology can be weaponized against you. Your phone number can be spoofed, photos doctored, and your identity stolen. But that same technology also creates records—digital trails, cell tower pings, and timestamps that don’t lie.

In my case, the hospital’s electronic monitoring system, the cell phone records, and the security cameras all saved me. The digital age makes certain kinds of harassment easier, but it also makes the truth harder to hide. I’m still rebuilding my life at 63, still recovering, and still processing what happened, but I’m here.

I’m free and my name is clear. Kevin Dutton is facing justice and Patricia is safe from him. Sometimes the system works, but only if you fight for yourself, document everything, and refuse to accept false accusations no matter how convincing they might seem to others.

Truth has a weight to it that lies can’t match. Not in the long run. You just have to be strong enough to hold on until that weight tips the scales in your direction.

And that titanium rod in my spine—it’s a permanent reminder. Even when life breaks you down, proper support and enough time can make you strong enough to stand again.