Pretend I’m Your Dad
At 12:17 on a cold Thursday morning, Sarah Mitchell was pouring coffee for a man she had never met before when he leaned across the diner table and quietly changed the course of her life.
“You’re in danger,” he said.
Sarah froze.
The coffee pot remained suspended over his cup, a thin ribbon of dark coffee still falling from the spout.
The man looked completely ordinary except for one thing.
Nothing about him suggested panic.
He was wearing a black leather vest over a dark shirt. A large motorcycle patch was stitched across the back of the vest, though Sarah could not see the design from where she stood. On his chest was a smaller patch bearing the words Hells Angels.
Underneath it was a single word.
President.
Sarah had heard stories about motorcycle clubs. Most of them had been told by people who had never actually met anyone in one.
She had learned, over the years, that people often feared what they didn't understand.
Still, the sight of the patch had made her cautious.
The man's face was weathered. He looked to be somewhere in his late fifties or early sixties. His hair was mostly gray, and there were deep lines around his eyes.
But his eyes were what unsettled her.
They were calm.
Not relaxed.
Calm.
There was a difference.
Relaxed eyes belonged to people who were having an ordinary morning.
These belonged to someone who had spent decades learning how to recognize danger before danger announced itself.
Sarah slowly lowered the coffee pot.
“What?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked past her.
Sarah followed his gaze.
Two men had just entered the diner.
Dark jackets.
Dark jeans.
Nothing remarkable about them at first glance.
But then Sarah noticed the way they moved.
Neither man looked at the menu.
Neither looked for an empty table.
They didn't even look around as if they were searching for someone.
They already knew where they were going.
One of them glanced directly at Sarah.
Then looked away.
The other reached inside his jacket.
Sarah's stomach tightened.
The man in the booth spoke again.
“Pretend I just said something embarrassing.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“Laugh.”
“I don't understand.”
“Sarah.”
Her name coming from his mouth made the hairs on her arms rise.
He leaned closer.
“Laugh like I just told you the worst joke you've ever heard.”
She forced a laugh.
It sounded awful.
Sharp.
Short.
Artificial.
The man nodded.
“Good enough.”
Sarah's fingers tightened around the coffee pot.
“How do you know my name?”
“My name is Hank Reeves.”
He paused.
“I've been watching those two men watch you for four days.”
Sarah stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because four days ago they were observing you.”
His expression hardened.
“Today they're moving.”
The first man had reached the counter.
The second was approaching booth six.
Sarah's booth.
Hank lowered his voice.
“That means they got the order.”
“What order?”
Hank looked directly into her eyes.
“To finish what they started twenty-four years ago.”
The words struck her with such force that for a second she couldn't breathe.
Twenty-four years.
That was her entire life.
She was twenty-four years old.
Her father had supposedly left before she was born.
That was the story her mother had always told her.
Her father had been young.
Irresponsible.
He had panicked when he discovered that Diana Mitchell was pregnant.
He had disappeared.
Sarah had grown up with the vague understanding that some men simply weren't built to be fathers.
She had never liked the story.
But she had accepted it.
Children accept whatever adults tell them about the world.
It takes years before they understand how easily adults can lie.
Hank's voice interrupted her thoughts.
“There's something you need to know.”
The second man was now eight feet away.
Hank's right hand disappeared beneath the table.
“When I stand up, walk toward the kitchen.”
Sarah whispered, “Why?”
“Because you're going to leave through the service exit.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you.”
“You're a stranger.”
“Yes.”
His expression changed.
For the first time, Sarah saw something emotional behind his eyes.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Grief.
“But I knew your father.”
The word hit her harder than anything else.
Father.
Hank continued.
“And I made him a promise the night he died.”
Sarah's lips parted.
“My father is alive.”
“No.”
The word was quiet.
“He isn't.”
Sarah felt the world tilt.
The second man was almost at the booth.
Hank looked toward him.
Then back to Sarah.
“Now.”
Sarah moved.
She didn't run.
She walked exactly as Hank had instructed.
Past table three.
Past the waitress station.
Through the kitchen.
Jimmy, the cook, shouted something behind her, but she didn't stop.
She shoved open the service door.
Cold morning air struck her face.