PART 2 — THE MAN I THOUGHT I KNEW

For a few seconds, I couldn’t breathe.

I looked at Marcus.

He was standing beside his car, checking his phone.

He hadn’t noticed anything.

I looked back at the receipt.

STOLEN CARD.[]

I immediately wondered if the waitress had made a mistake.

Maybe she was talking about someone else.

Maybe there was another customer with a similar card.

I walked toward Marcus.

He smiled.

“Everything okay?”

I forced a smile.

“Yeah.”

He opened the passenger door for me.

“Let me take you home.”

I hesitated.

Then I remembered the waitress’s face.

She had looked terrified.

I suddenly didn’t want to get into his car.

“I think I’ll call a rideshare.”

His smile disappeared.

“Why?”

“I’m just tired.”

He stared at me for several seconds.

Then he nodded.

“Okay.”

As I waited for my ride, he stood there watching me.

Then he said something that made my stomach tighten.

“You don’t trust me.”

I laughed nervously.

“Of course I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

My rideshare arrived.

I got inside.

Marcus watched the car pull away.

I thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

The next morning, I received a message from him.

“I had a great time last night. I hope I didn’t scare you.”[]

I didn’t respond.

A few minutes later, another message appeared.

“You should give me another chance.”[]

I blocked his number.

Then I called the restaurant.

I asked for the waitress.

Her name was Rachel.

When she answered, I said:

“Why did you give me that receipt?”

There was silence.

Then she said:

“Can you come here?”

I went back that afternoon.

Rachel sat across from me in a small office.

She looked exhausted.

“I recognized him,” she said.

“From where?”

“He’s been here before.”

“How many times?”

She looked down.

“Four.”

My heart sank.

Rachel explained that Marcus had brought different women to the restaurant.

The same routine.

He was charming.

He ordered expensive food.

He acted confident.

Then, when the bill came, his card suddenly “stopped working.”

Sometimes the women paid.

Sometimes he disappeared before the restaurant could resolve the payment.

But the night before, Rachel had recognized the card.

“It belonged to another customer,” she said.

I stared at her.

“So the card wasn’t his?”

“No.”

“Then why did you tell him it was declined?”

Rachel looked at me.

“Because I needed him to leave without realizing I knew.”

She explained that she had contacted her manager and quietly alerted the authorities.

But she didn’t want to confront him.

Not yet.

Then Rachel said something that made my blood run cold.

“He isn’t just doing this for free meals.”

“What do you mean?”

She reached for a folder.

Inside were copies of previous reports.

Different restaurants.

Different women.

Different names.

But the same man.

And then she showed me something else.

A photograph.

Marcus.

My stomach turned.

“How did you get this?”

“Someone else reported him.”

I looked at the photograph again.

Then Rachel whispered:

“He doesn’t just use stolen cards.”

I looked up.

“What else does he do?”

She took a deep breath.