“I don’t know,” I said.
I sat in my car outside her building for almost an hour. I watched her windows, waiting for a curtain to move.
Nothing happened.
The next afternoon, she called.
Her voice sounded shaky.
“I can’t explain over the phone.”
“When can we meet?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning.”
I barely slept that night.
The next morning, I caught her just outside her office before she went inside.
She looked exhausted. Her face was pale, and she kept glancing toward the building entrance as though she wanted an excuse to escape.
“What happened?” I demanded.
“What did my father do?”
Then she showed me her phone.
Her fingers were trembling so badly that I had to take it from her.
The screen showed a message from an unknown number.
“Stay away from him. You have no idea what he is capable of.”
Below it was a photograph of Rachel leaving the restaurant with my father.
The picture had been taken from across the street.
My stomach tightened.
“When did you get this?” I asked.
“About 20 minutes after I got home.”
I swiped upward.
There were more messages.
The sender knew Rachel’s address.
They knew where she worked. They even knew the name of her younger brother, Graham.
The last message was the worst.
“If you contact him or Lola again, Graham will learn what happened in Philadelphia.”
I looked at Rachel.
“What happened in Philadelphia?”
Her eyes filled with shame.
“Nothing criminal. Graham was struggling with addiction three years ago. He disappeared for two days. I found him in a motel and brought him home. Nobody knows except my family.”
“How could this person know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did you tell me not to contact you?”
Rachel folded her arms tightly.
“Because the message arrived seconds after you called. Whoever sent it knew you were trying to reach me.”
A cold wave moved through my body.
That meant someone was watching both of us.
I asked Rachel to forward every message and photograph. She hesitated before agreeing.
“Please be careful, Lola,” she said. “This is not a rejected woman or some jealous stranger.”
“You think my father is involved?”
“I think someone close to him is.”
I wanted to defend him. Instead, I remembered how quickly he had become angry when I asked about his dates.
I left Rachel outside her office and drove to my father’s house.
He opened the door wearing an old sweatshirt and slippers. His hair was uncombed, and dark circles rested beneath his eyes.
“Rachel has not answered me,” he said. “Did I do something wrong?”
The pain in his voice sounded real.
I stepped inside without responding.
He followed me into the living room.
“Lola, what happened?”
“Someone threatened her.”
His face went still.
“What?”
I showed him the messages.
He read them slowly. His expression changed from confusion to fear.
“This happened after our date?”
“Yes.”
He handed the phone back.
“We should call the police.”
“I already told Rachel we should.”
“Then why are you here?”
I studied his face.
