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.
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.
