The date went surprisingly well.
Rachel called me afterward and said my father was kind, funny, and respectful. They had talked for nearly three hours.
“He asked if I wanted to have dinner again,” she said.
For the first time, I felt relieved.
The next morning, Rachel disappeared too.
She stopped answering my calls and messages. When she finally contacted me, she sent only a short message asking me not to contact her.
That was not like Rachel.
The next morning, we met outside her office.
She looked exhausted.
“What happened?” I asked.
Instead of answering, she showed me her phone.
There was a message from an unknown number.
“Stay away from him.”
Attached was a photograph of Rachel leaving the restaurant with my father.
The photograph had clearly been taken from a distance.
There were more messages.
The sender knew where Rachel worked. They knew where she lived. They even knew a private family detail that very few people knew.
The final message frightened both of us.
It warned Rachel to stay away from my father and me.
I stared at the screen.
“This isn’t about my father dating,” I said.
Rachel shook her head.
“Someone is trying to scare us.”
I immediately thought of my father.
Not because I believed he was responsible, but because someone appeared determined to stop every woman from getting close to him.
I drove to his house.
He looked genuinely confused when I told him what happened.
“Someone threatened Rachel?”
“Yes.”
He immediately suggested contacting the authorities.
Then I asked whether I could see his phone.
He agreed.
There were no suspicious applications or strange conversations. Nothing obvious connected him to the messages.
Then I noticed something else.
My father had installed a home security system after someone had entered his garage the previous year.
We opened the camera recordings.
The footage showed my father returning home alone after his date with Rachel.
Later that night, however, a person appeared near the driveway.
The figure wore a hood and kept their face turned away from the camera.
I watched the recording several times.
Then I noticed the person’s shoes.
White sneakers with a dark stripe.
I had seen those shoes before.
My aunt Sabrina had a similar pair.
Sabrina was my mother’s younger sister. After Mom died, she had been extremely supportive of my father and me. She helped with meals, paperwork, and countless small responsibilities during those difficult years.
But eventually, she became distant.
She told us visiting the house was too painful.
I had always believed her.
Now I was not so sure.
I searched through an old box of family photographs and found a picture of Mom and Sabrina together.
Sabrina was wearing the same style of shoes.
I called Rachel.
“Do you remember telling my aunt about your brother’s difficult period?”
Rachel paused.
“Yes. She found me upset once, and I told her about it.”
That was enough to make me suspicious.
Sabrina knew Rachel.
She knew my family.
She knew my father’s routine.
And she had known my mother better than almost anyone.
