“Did you argue with them?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you say anything that could have frightened them?”
His expression tightened.
“What kind of man do you think I am?”
“That is not what I meant.”
He turned toward the sink and began rinsing a mug that was already clean.
I knew I had hurt him.
“I just want to understand,” I said.
“So do I.”
That evening, I called my best friend Rachel and asked her for a favor.
We had known each other since college.
Rachel was painfully honest.
She could charm an entire room, yet she could also spot a lie before most people finished telling it.
If my father was doing something wrong, she would notice.
“Go on one date with him.”
She laughed.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m serious.”
Her laughter faded.
“Lola, that is your father.”
“I know.”
“And he knows me.”
“He has only met you a few times.”
“That does not make this less strange.”
I explained everything.
I told her about the six women, the successful dates, and how each one disappeared overnight.
Rachel stayed silent for several moments.
“So you want me to investigate him?”
“I want you to tell me what happens.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to say when he recognizes me?”
“Tell him we met through the app. He might remember your face, but he will not remember your name.”
Rachel groaned.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“It could ruin my friendship with you.”
“It will not.”
“It could ruin your relationship with your father.”
The thought terrified me, but I kept my voice steady.
“I need to know.”
Reluctantly, she agreed.
The date went even better than I had expected.
Rachel called afterward.
“Your dad is wonderful,” she said.
“I can’t believe nobody gave him a chance.”
Relief washed over me.
“So nothing strange happened?”
“Nothing. He was kind, funny, and respectful. We talked for almost three hours.”
“Did he mention another date?”
“He asked if I wanted to have dinner again next Friday.”
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
For the first time in weeks, I slept peacefully.
The next morning, Rachel disappeared too.
I called before work.
No answer.
I tried again at lunch.
Straight to voicemail.
I sent several messages asking whether she was okay.
None were delivered.
By evening, a text finally arrived.
“Don’t contact me. Please.”
I knew immediately that wasn’t Rachel.
Even during our worst arguments, she always called instead of disappearing.
I drove straight to her apartment.
Her car was parked outside.
The lights were on.
But no one answered the door.
I knocked until my knuckles hurt, called her name through the door, and tried her phone again.
Nothing.
A neighbor stepped into the hallway.
“Is everything all right?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
I waited in my car outside her building for nearly an hour, watching her windows for any sign of movement.
Nothing happened.
The following afternoon, she finally called.
Her voice shook.
“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 outside her office before she went inside.
She looked exhausted.
Her face was pale, and she kept glancing toward the entrance as though she wanted to escape.
“What happened?” I asked. “What did my father do?”
Without speaking, she handed me her phone.
Her hands were trembling so badly that I had to take it from her.
A message from an unknown number filled the screen.
“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.
It had clearly been taken from across the street.
My stomach tightened.
“When did you get this?” I asked.
“About 20 minutes after I got home.”
I scrolled upward.
