Puzzled

My father passed when I was young—very young. I barely recall what the house was like with him there; because I didn’t know life with him, life without him was just... regular. I have very few memories of my dad, but those few centered around one thing: crossword puzzles. If he got bored, he’d do a crossword puzzle. He’d do it in doctor’s offices, hotel lobbies, funerals—it didn’t matter. The last image I have of him is his slender frame sitting on his favorite leather recliner, legs crossed, a puzzle in his lap, and glasses properly propped on his roman nose. It’s been years since he passed, and I still wonder what happened. Mom says he got lost on a hiking trip, but police never showed up to question us about his disappearance. While pondering this, I situated in Dad’s recliner. I picked up one of the nearby puzzles and attempted to solve it. As I got one line correct, I’d get the next. I'd finished before I realized it. I looked down and caught something strange: four words traveled in a diagonal line. When I read them, a pit seared into my core. “Don’t—Trust—Your—Mother.”