There were more messages.
Whoever sent them knew Rachel’s address.
They knew where she worked.
They even knew the name of her younger brother, Graham.
The final 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?”
Shame filled her eyes.
“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 wrapped her arms tightly around herself.
“Because the message arrived seconds after you called. Whoever sent it knew you were trying to reach me.”
A chill ran through me.
Someone had been 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 defensive he had become when I questioned him about his dates.
I left Rachel outside her office and drove straight to my father’s house.
He answered wearing an old sweatshirt and slippers.
His hair was messy, and dark circles rested beneath his eyes.
“Rachel has not answered me,” he said. “Did I do something wrong?”
The hurt in his voice sounded genuine.
Without replying, I walked inside.
He followed me into the living room.
“Lola, what happened?”
“Someone threatened her.”
His face froze.
“What?”
I showed him the messages.
He read every one slowly, his expression shifting from confusion to fear.
“This happened after our date?”
“Yes.”
He handed back the phone.
“We should call the police.”
“I already told Rachel we should.”
“Then why are you here?”
I studied him carefully.
“Because the sender knew personal details about her. They also knew when I called.”
He stared at me.
“You think I did this?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
He slowly lowered himself onto the couch.
For a moment, he looked far older than he had the day before.
“I would never hurt her.”
“Then help me understand.”
He rubbed his hands across his knees.
“I cannot.”
As he watched, I searched the house.
Everything looked ordinary.
The kitchen was spotless.
His laptop sat on the dining table.
His phone rested beside it.
“May I look at your phone?” I asked.
He hesitated for only a moment.
“Of course.”
There were no hidden apps.
No suspicious calls.
No unfamiliar contacts.
Then I noticed a notification from his home security system.
“You installed cameras?”
“After someone broke into the garage last year.”
“Where are they?”
“Front porch, driveway, and back door.”
I opened the app.
The footage showed my father returning home alone at 10:17 p.m.
He went inside.
A few minutes later, someone stepped into the edge of the driveway.
The person wore a hood and kept their face turned away.
My pulse quickened.
“Who is that?”
My father leaned closer.
“I do not know.”
The figure paused beside his car before disappearing from view.
I replayed the footage.
This time, I focused on the shoes.
White sneakers with a dark stripe along the side.
I had seen them before.
Not recently, but often enough to remember.
My father looked at me.
“Lola?”
I closed the app.
“I need to check something.”
I drove home and pulled an old storage box from my closet.
Inside were photographs, birthday cards, and papers that had belonged to Mom.
At the very bottom was a picture from her final summer.
