I’m A 58-year-old Widow Working Night Shifts. My Uber Driver Just Showed Me A Photo Of A Man Claiming To Be My Brother. I Don’t Have A Brother. Am I In Danger?

We’d exchange pleasantries in the breakroom, brief conversations about the weather or the residents. But lately, I’d noticed him watching me.

Not obviously, but I’d catch him staring when I passed in the hallways, or I’d turn around at the nurses’ station to find him standing there, asking if I needed help with something. My desk chair was oiled without my asking.

My locker, which had been sticking, suddenly opened smoothly. I mentioned it to my colleague Sharon during a break.

“Mitchell’s been really helpful lately,” I said, keeping my tone light.

Sharon raised an eyebrow. “Has he? That’s new. He usually keeps to himself.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said, but something in my gut disagreed.

The feeling grew stronger over the next two weeks. Mitchell started appearing more frequently during my shift, always with some excuse: checking a radiator in my wing or replacing light bulbs that didn’t need replacing.

Once I found him standing outside the medication room, just standing there, not doing anything. “Can I help you with something?” I asked.

He startled like he hadn’t expected me to notice him. “Oh, no. Just checking the door frame. Thought I heard it was sticking.”

It wasn’t. I’d gone through that door a hundred times without issue.

I told David about it one night during our drive home. “Maybe I’m being paranoid,” I said. “But there’s this guy at work who’s been acting strange.”

David’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Strange how?”

“Just showing up places, watching me, being overly helpful.” I laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m probably imagining things. I’m sure he’s just trying to be nice.”

David was quiet for a moment. “Trust your gut, Maggie,” he finally said. “You’re smart. If something feels off, it probably is.”

A Warning and a Deception

That Thursday night, David didn’t show up. I stood outside Sunrise at 11:15, refreshing my Uber app, but his name never appeared.

Instead, a different driver accepted my request. A young woman named Jessica arrived 10 minutes later.

“Where’s David?” I asked, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.

“I don’t know, ma’am,” she said cheerfully. “Just saw the request and picked it up.”

I checked my phone; no messages from David. That was unlike him; in three months, he’d never once failed to show up.

When I got home, there was a text waiting. Maggie, this is David. Please take a different Uber tomorrow night. Don’t tell the driver where you live; have them drop you off a block away. I’ll explain tomorrow. Trust me.

My hands shook as I read it. What could have happened? Was David okay? Was I in danger?

I barely slept that night, tossing and turning, checking my phone every hour. At 10:00 the next morning, David finally called.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said immediately.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine, but what’s going on? Can we meet somewhere?” “Somewhere public,” we agreed on a Starbucks near my condo.

I got there first, ordered a coffee I didn’t drink, and waited. David arrived 15 minutes later, looking like he hadn’t slept either.

“Yesterday afternoon,” he began, sitting across from me. “I was waiting in the Sunrise parking lot early, like always. A man approached my car. He knocked on my window.”

My heart started pounding. “He said he was your brother. Said his name was Michael Carol and that he was visiting from out of town. He wanted to know about you, about your schedule, about where you lived.”

“He said you two had lost touch and he wanted to surprise you.” “I don’t have a brother,” I said quietly.

“I know. I mean, I figured. Something about him felt wrong. He was too interested, too pushy. And Maggie, he knew things.”

“He knew what nights you worked. He knew you brought me coffee and baked goods. He described your blue winter coat.” The coffee in my stomach turned to acid. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. I said I didn’t know who he was talking about, that I pick up lots of people. He got angry, started demanding information. That’s when I took his picture.”

David pulled out his phone and showed me. The photo was taken through his car window, slightly blurry but clear enough. It was Mitchell Ross.

The room tilted. “That’s not my brother,” I whispered. “That’s Mitchell. He works maintenance at Sunrise.”

David’s expression darkened. “He’s been watching you.”

Everything clicked into place: the sudden helpfulness, the appearing in hallways, the knowing glances. Mitchell had been gathering information about me, my routine, my life.

And when that wasn’t enough, he’d approached David trying to get more. “We need to do something,” David said. “This isn’t normal behavior.”

I thought about brushing it off, about telling David that Mitchell was probably just socially awkward, that I was overreacting. But Tom’s voice echoed in my head, something he’d told Emily when she was a teenager: “Don’t be polite when your safety is at stake.”

“I need to talk to Patricia,” I said. “My supervisor. She needs to know.”

But when I arrived for my shift that night, using a different Uber driver and having them drop me a block away like David suggested, Patricia was in a meeting. I made it through the shift on edge, jumping at every sound, checking over my shoulder constantly.

Mitchell appeared twice, both times with maintenance excuses that felt increasingly hollow.

The Confrontation and the Truth

The next day, Saturday, I finally got a hold of Patricia. I showed her David’s photo and explained Mitchell’s behavior.

Her expression grew serious. “I’ll look into this,” she promised. “In the meantime, I want you to document everything. Every interaction, every time you see him, every time he approaches you.”

That night, Sunday, was my night off. I was home alone, trying to watch television and failing to focus, when my phone buzzed.

Unknown number. “Hello?” There was heavy breathing on the other end, then a man’s voice, slurred.

“You think you’re too good for me.” “Who is this?” “You know who this is, Margaret. You smile at everyone else. You bring that driver cookies, but you won’t even look at me.”

My blood ran cold. Mitchell. “She smiled at me, too,” he continued, his words running together.

“My Sarah. She smiled just like you, had the same laugh. She needed help and I tried, but the doctors wouldn’t listen. They let her die in that place, in your place.”

“Mitchell, you’re not making sense.” “You remind me of her,” he said, his voice breaking.