I went through my daughter’s phone last night and I was baffled.

She’s sixteen. I expected to find texts about boys, or maybe vaping, or mean gossip about teachers.

Instead, I found a photo album in her "Hidden" folder simply labeled: "Him."

There were hundreds of photos.

But they weren't of a boy from school.

They were photos of me.

Me sitting on the couch. Me doing dishes. Me mowing the lawn.

And they were all taken from strange angles. High up. From behind vents. From inside the pantry.

I sat on the edge of her bed, my hand shaking.

Why was my daughter spying on me?

I scrolled through the timestamps.

Yesterday, 6:00 PM. I was cooking dinner. The photo was taken from the gap in the kitchen blinds, looking in from the backyard.

Tuesday, 11:00 PM. I was asleep in my bed. The photo was taken from the corner of my ceiling, looking down.

My daughter is 5'2". She can't reach the ceiling. And she was at a sleepover on Tuesday.

I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach.

I closed the photos and opened her text messages.

There was a thread pinned to the top. No name. Just a period as the contact info.

Her: "He’s in the kitchen now. You have to be quiet."

.: "I know. I can smell the garlic. He’s making pasta again."

Her: "Please don't come out yet. He’s in a bad mood."

.: "I’m not coming out for him, Sarah. I’m coming out for you. I brought the gift."

I dropped the phone on the duvet.

She wasn't taking the photos.

She was receiving them.

Someone was sending her photos of me to prove they were watching.

"Sarah!" I yelled, running into the hallway.

Her door was locked. I kicked it open.

Her bed was empty. The window was open. The screen was slashed.

I ran to the window.

"Sarah?" I screamed into the dark yard.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was a text from Sarah’s number. But I had her phone on the bed behind me.

I looked back.

Her phone wasn't buzzing.

My phone was buzzing.

I answered.

"Dad?" Sarah’s voice was a whisper. She sounded terrified. "Dad, where are you?"

"I'm in your room!" I shouted. "Where are you?"

"I'm in the crawlspace," she sobbed. "Under the stairs. He told me if I didn't go in there, he’d hurt you. He has a knife, Dad. He’s been in the walls for weeks."

"Who?" I demanded, grabbing the baseball bat from behind her door. "Who is he?"

"The man from the texts," she cried. "He says he’s my real dad. He says you stole me."

I froze.

I adopted Sarah when she was two. It was a closed adoption. The biological father was in prison for a double homicide.

He was supposed to be serving life without parole.

I heard a creak.

Not from the crawlspace.

From above me.

The attic hatch in the hallway ceiling began to slide open.

A pale, dirty hand gripped the frame of the hatch.

Then a face appeared. upside down. Smiling.

He looked exactly like the mugshot I had burned fourteen years ago.

"She has your temper, Mark," he whispered, dropping lightly to the floor, a hunting knife glinting in his hand.

"But she has my eyes."

I swung the bat, but he caught it with one hand.

He was fast. He was strong.

And as he drove me into the wall, I realized the photos on her phone weren't surveillance.

They were a menu.

He had been watching me for weeks, learning my schedule, waiting for the perfect night to take back what he thought was his.

"Don't worry," he grunted, pressing the blade against my ribs. "I'm not going to kill you.

You are my daughter's father....