The first time, Dad assumed she had become busy.
The second, he believed he had misread her interest.
By the third, he blamed himself.
“Maybe I talk about your mother too much,” he said.
“You barely mention her on dates.”
“Maybe I am too old-fashioned.”
“You held a door open for her. That is not a crime.”
He managed a tired smile, but my reassurance never truly reached him.
Each rejection broke his heart.
“I don’t understand,” he’d whisper.
“They all seemed so happy.”
Watching him lose confidence was painful.
With every disappointment, he drifted closer to the quiet man he’d become after Mom died.
He stopped singing again.
He checked his phone constantly.
He reread old conversations as though the answer might suddenly appear.
The fourth woman disappeared after saying she wanted him to meet her sister.
The fifth vanished after making weekend plans.
When the sixth did exactly the same thing, I knew something was wrong.
Six women could lose interest.
That much was possible.
But six women wouldn’t all disappear the morning after promising another date.
I asked my father whether anything unusual had happened during those evenings.
He looked genuinely confused.
“No. Why?”
“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.
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.
