Rachel would never send a message like that without an explanation. Even during our worst disagreement, she had called me and argued until both of us ran out of things to say.
I drove straight to her apartment.
Her car was still there.
Her lights were on.
But nobody answered the door.
I knocked until my knuckles hurt. I called her name through the door. I tried her phone again and heard nothing from inside.
A neighbor stepped into the hallway and asked whether everything was all right.
"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.
