THE OLD BIKER WHISPERED, “CALL ME DAD” — THEN THE WAITRESS SAW WHO WAS WAITING OUTSIDE

THE OLD BIKER WHISPERED, “CALL ME DAD” — THEN THE WAITRESS SAW WHO WAS WAITING OUTSIDE

The old biker grabbed the waitress's wrist and whispered five words that made her blood run cold.

“Smile. They're here for you.”

Thirty seconds later, the diner doors locked.

Twenty-four-year-old Emily Dawson had no idea why.

She had only been working the night shift at Molly's Diner in rural Ohio for three months.

The old man at booth six had been there every Thursday.

Gray beard.

Black leather vest.

Weathered hands.

He always ordered apple pie and black coffee.

Emily knew him as Hank.

Nothing more.

That night, however, Hank wasn't eating.

He was watching the front windows.

Emily approached with the coffee pot.

“Refill?”

Hank looked up.

“No.”

Emily frowned.

“Are you okay?”

He leaned closer.

“Do exactly what I say.”

Her smile disappeared.

“What?”

“Pretend I'm your father.”

Emily stared at him.

“My father died ten years ago.”

“I know.”

The answer froze her.

Hank glanced toward the window.

“Two men just parked across the street.”

Emily's stomach tightened.

“Who are they?”

“I don't know yet.”

She tried to look.

Hank immediately grabbed her hand.

“Don't.”

His voice was firm.

“Keep smiling.”

Emily forced a nervous smile.

“Dad,” she said awkwardly, “do you want pie?”

Hank smiled.

“That's my girl.”

The two men entered.

Dark jackets.

Black gloves.