Chapter 3 - Rachel’s Terrifying Warning
Convincing Dad to meet Rachel was easier than I expected.
That should have worried me.
I told him Rachel had recently ended a long relationship and was tired of dating apps. I suggested they have dinner because they were both intelligent, funny, and allergic to people who photographed every meal before eating it.
Dad stared at me across the kitchen counter.
“Your best friend?”
“She’s forty-one, Dad, not seventeen.”
“I know how old she is.”
“You haven’t seen her in years.”
“I saw her at your birthday dinner last spring.”
“For twenty minutes.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“This feels strange.”
“Because you knew her when we were younger?”
“Because you are arranging a date for your father.”
“You joined an app that lets strangers judge your face while standing in grocery-store lines. This is less strange.”
He laughed despite himself.
Then his smile faded.
“What did you tell her about the other women?”
“Nothing important.”
That was my first lie.
Dad noticed.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Emily.”
“I told her dating had been difficult.”
“I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Then why would she agree?”
“Because she likes you.”
That was not entirely false. Rachel had always liked Dad. She simply had never considered him romantically.
Dad looked toward the living room where my mother’s photograph still stood on the mantel.
“I don’t know.”
“One dinner,” I said. “No expectations.”
Those were the same words Rachel had used.
Finally, he nodded.
“All right.”
The date was scheduled for Friday evening at Bellini’s, the same Italian restaurant where Dad had taken Caroline. I suggested the location because it had large front windows, a busy parking lot, and security cameras.
Rachel accused me of behaving like a federal agent.
I spent most of Friday evening parked across the street.
I knew it was wrong to watch them.
I also knew I would have gone insane sitting at home.
Dad arrived first, wearing a dark blue button-down shirt and the gray jacket I had given him for Christmas. He checked his reflection in the restaurant window, smoothed his hair, and took a breath before entering.
That small gesture broke my heart.
He wanted this to go well.
Rachel arrived five minutes later. She wore a green dress and carried a black coat over one arm. Before entering, she looked directly across the street at my car.
Even from that distance, I could see her expression.
I cannot believe you made me do this.
I sank lower in my seat.
For the next two hours, I watched shadows moving behind the restaurant windows. Dad and Rachel sat near the back, so I could only catch occasional glimpses.
At one point, Rachel threw her head back laughing.
Later, Dad leaned forward while she spoke, listening with the focused expression he gave people when he genuinely cared about what they were saying.
They did not look like two people participating in an investigation.
They looked like they were having a wonderful date.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, jealousy and guilt twisted together inside me.
Rachel was my best friend. Dad was my father. Watching them connect made the entire plan feel more manipulative than it had in theory.
At ten fifteen, they left the restaurant.
Dad walked Rachel to her car.
They spoke for several minutes beneath the parking-lot lights. Then Rachel hugged him.
Not a polite, one-armed hug.
A real hug.
Dad stood there after she drove away, smiling to himself.
I waited until he left before calling her.
She answered through the car’s speaker.
“Well?” I demanded.
“Your father is wonderful.”
The warmth in her voice surprised me.
“What happened?”
“We had dinner.”
“I know that.”
“We talked.”
“About what?”
“Everything. Teaching, travel, your mother, my spectacular history of choosing emotionally unavailable men.”
“Did anyone approach you?”
“No.”
“Did you notice anyone watching?”
“No.”
“Any strange calls?”
“No, Agent Bennett.”
“This is serious.”
“I know.”
Her tone softened.
“Emily, I understand why those women liked him. Your father makes people feel safe. He listens. He doesn’t spend the entire evening talking about himself. He even remembered that I’m allergic to walnuts from a Thanksgiving dinner eight years ago.”
“That sounds like Dad.”
“It does.”
There was a pause.
“Would you see him again?” I asked.
Rachel did not answer immediately.
The silence told me more than words.
“Rachel?”
“If the circumstances were different, maybe.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“This wasn’t supposed to become real.”
“I know.”
“You promised.”
“I promised not to humiliate him. I did not promise I would feel nothing.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Rachel sighed.
“Relax. I’m not planning our wedding. I enjoyed one dinner with a good man.”
“Did you make plans to meet again?”
“He asked if I wanted to attend an outdoor concert next weekend.”
“And?”
“I said yes.”
“That’s when we’ll catch whoever is doing this.”
Her voice hardened.
“Emily, listen to yourself.”
“What?”
“You’re hoping someone threatens me.”
“I’m hoping we get proof.”
“At what cost?”
Before I could answer, her phone chimed.
“Hold on,” she said. “I received a message.”
My pulse jumped.
“From whom?”
“Unknown number.”
“Read it.”
Rachel was silent.
“Rachel?”
“It says, ‘Daniel Bennett is not the man you think he is. Ask what happened the night Anna died.’”
Cold spread across my chest.
“What else?”
“There’s a photograph.”
“Of what?”
Another pause.
“Your mother’s car.”
I stopped breathing.
“What kind of photograph?”
“The wreck. Taken at night.”
The official photographs from my mother’s accident had never been released publicly.
“Send it to me.”
“I’m sending it now.”
My phone vibrated.
The image was grainy and dark, but I recognized my mother’s red sedan twisted against a guardrail. Emergency lights glowed in the distance.
A second message arrived while I stared at it.
Rachel read it aloud.
“‘Ask Daniel why he lied to his daughter for twelve years.’”
My stomach turned.
“Call the number.”
“I already tried. It’s disconnected.”
“Take screenshots.”
“I am.”
“Do not go home.”
“Emily—”
“Meet me at my apartment.”
“I can handle myself.”
“Whoever sent that knows where you were. They may know where you live.”
Rachel hesitated.
“All right. I’ll come over.”
I drove home so quickly that I barely remember the trip.
Rachel arrived fifteen minutes later.
We sat at my dining table and examined the messages. The photograph had no metadata. The number appeared to be generated through an anonymous messaging service.
“Could this be one of the former women?” Rachel asked.
“Why would they sabotage each other?”
“Maybe the same person dated him first and became obsessed.”
“Then why mention Mom?”
“To frighten people.”
I zoomed in on the photograph.
Something about the angle bothered me.
The picture had been taken from close to the road, before the emergency vehicles fully surrounded the wreck. It might have come from a witness, a first responder, or someone who had arrived immediately after the crash.
“Dad said Mom died instantly,” I murmured.
Rachel watched me carefully.
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes.”
The answer came automatically.
Then doubt entered.
Dad had never described the accident in detail. He said the police called him from the hospital and that by the time he arrived, Mom was gone.
I had never questioned it.
“Who else had access to the accident report?” Rachel asked.
“Police, insurance companies, attorneys.”
“Family?”
“My aunt Vivian handled some paperwork because Dad was barely functioning.”
Vivian was my mother’s younger sister.
She lived twenty minutes away and had remained close to us after Mom’s death. She brought meals during the first year, helped Dad organize legal documents, and stayed with me whenever grief became unbearable.
The thought of her involvement felt absurd.
“Could she have the photo?” Rachel asked.
“Maybe, but she would never do this.”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know.”
At midnight, Rachel left after making me promise not to confront Dad until we had more information.
The next morning, I called her at seven thirty.
She did not answer.
At eight, I tried again.
Straight to voicemail.
I sent three messages.
No response.
At nine fifteen, I drove to her apartment.
Her car was parked outside.
Her curtains were closed, but light escaped around the edges.
I knocked.
Nothing.
I called her phone while standing outside the door. I heard it ringing inside.
“Rachel!”
No answer.
I pounded harder.
A neighbor opened his door and stared at me.
“Everything all right?”
“I’m not sure.”
I called the building manager, then the police. Because there was no obvious sign of forced entry and Rachel was an adult, the officers said they could not immediately break down the door.
I told them about the threatening messages.
One officer took notes but seemed unconvinced.
“Could she have gone somewhere without her phone?” he asked.
“Her car is here.”
“Maybe a friend picked her up.”
“I am the friend people call when they need to disappear.”
The officer promised to file a report.
By afternoon, panic had taken over.
I called Dad and told him Rachel was sick, not missing. I hated lying, but I could not tell him the truth until I understood what was happening.
At six forty, my phone vibrated.
A message from Rachel.
Don’t contact me. Please.
I read it twice.
That was not Rachel.
She would have written more. She would have explained. She would never leave me terrified for an entire day and then send four cold words.
I drove back to her apartment.
Her car remained in the same space.
The lights were on.
Nobody answered.
The next afternoon, nearly thirty hours after she vanished, Rachel finally called.
Her breathing was uneven.
“Where are you?” I demanded.
“I’m safe.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t explain over the phone.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know who might be listening.”
The fear in her voice silenced me.
“When can we meet?”
“Tomorrow morning. Outside my office.”
“I’m coming now.”
“No.”
“Rachel—”
“Tomorrow, Emily. In public.”
The call ended.
I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother’s wrecked car and imagined Rachel trapped somewhere, frightened into silence.
At eight the following morning, I waited outside the office building where Rachel worked as a financial consultant.
She arrived wearing sunglasses despite the cloudy sky.
When she stepped from a rideshare car, I hurried toward her.
“What happened?” I demanded. “What did my father do?”
Rachel removed her sunglasses.
There was no bruise, no visible injury, but her face was pale and exhausted.
“Your father didn’t do anything to me,” she said.
“Then who did?”
Rachel glanced over her shoulder.
“A woman was waiting outside my apartment when I got home.”
“What woman?”
“She knew my name. She knew where I worked. She knew about my younger brother’s custody case and the hospital where my mother receives treatment.”
My mouth went dry.
“What did she want?”
“She told me to stay away from Daniel.”
“Did she threaten you?”
“She didn’t have to. She showed me how much she knew.”
“Who was she?”
Rachel swallowed.
“I had never seen her before.”
“What did she look like?”
“Early sixties. Tall. Dark coat. Gray-blond hair.”
That description could match thousands of women.
Then Rachel said something that made the sidewalk seem to tilt beneath my feet.
May you like
“She was wearing your mother’s wedding ring.”
---
