I download the image, my hands shaking as I do, and then upload it into a Google image search. I sit there, my breath coming in shallow bursts as I wait for the results to load, my eyes glued to the screen. The tension is unbearable, a knot tightening in my stomach with each passing second. I need this to work. I need answers. I need to know who he is.
I hit a dead end. Google image search won’t work on faces.Fuck.
I lean back again in my chair to think up another idea as I stare, helpless, at my screen. After a minute passes, an ad pops up, offering to do the search for a fee. It’s the first time I’ve ever been happy to see a pop-up ad.
I instantly click on it, fill out the information on the website, and pay the fee, knowing full well I’m probably being scammed and my identity is about to be stolen. But I’ll risk the fishy website for the truth.
Several images are returned to me, and I scroll through them closely, but none of them are of Saint. They’re all men who vaguely resemble him—some with similar bone structure, others with similar facial hair—but not him. I keep scrolling and scrolling, my frustration mounting, my hope slipping away with each failed match. It feels like every click is another dead end, another step further into this maze of lies.
And then, suddenly, I see a picture that makes my heart drop into my stomach.
A picture that looks just like him.
My pulse quickens, my hands sweating as I hover over the image, too scared to click but too desperate not to.Please be him,I think, my mind repeating the words like a mantra.Please be him.
With a shaky breath, I click on the picture. The page it takes me to is a Facebook profile, but the page is private. Most of the information is locked away, but the name isn’t.Eric Kingston.I stare at the name, my mind racing, the letters blurring together as I try to process what I’m seeing. The only thing available to the public is profile pictures—pictures that confirm without a shadow of a doubt that this is the man I’ve been calling Saint.
Saint is Eric Kingston.
Who is Eric Kingston?
There’s no history, no background—just this name and these pictures are all the profile allows me to see. What kind of man goes to such lengths to hide who he really is? My fingers hover over the mouse,itching to click through his friends list, to find something more, but there’s nothing to click on. It’s all locked away behind privacy settings. I’m left with nothing but his face and a name I’ve never heard before.
The reality of the situation crashes over me. I close my eyes and blow out a shaky breath, trying to steady myself, but it’s no use. The questions swirl around me like a storm, relentless and unforgiving. Who is Eric Kingston, and what does he want from me?
I close out of the private Facebook profile and move my mouse to hover over the tabs open on my browser. I need answers, and I’m not stopping until I find them. Without hesitating, I open up Google. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I type in the new name.Eric Kingston.I hit Enter, holding my breath as the search engine returns several hits.
I scroll through the results, scanning the names and descriptions, hoping something will jump out at me. I feel like a detective piecing together clues, but every step forward feels like I’m uncovering more of a truth I might not want. I want to know, but I’m terrified to know.
Finally, I come across a link for an Instagram profile with that name, my heart skipping a beat as I click on it. But as the page loads, my hope deflates almost instantly.Private.Again.
I curse under my breath, leaning back helplessly in my chair yet again, feeling a blanket of frustration settle over me. It’s like every door I open slams shut before I can get a good look inside.
But then I notice something on the Instagram profile that catches my attention. The display name lists a middle name:Merrell.That’s new. It’s another piece of the puzzle, another breadcrumb on the trail that leads to who this man really is.
Eric Merrell Kingston.
I repeat the name silently to myself, committing it to memory, feeling a rush of anxiety mixed with determination. My pulse quickens as I realize how deep I’m getting into this. I reach for my wallet, my fingersfumbling as I take out my credit card again. If there’s one way to get to the bottom of this, it’s through a background check. I can’t rely on social media alone. I need more concrete information—something that will give me more than a profile picture or a few vague details.
I open a background check website, the kind that promises a full report for a fee, and enter the information. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but I know I need to see this through. I can’t back down from this search now, not after everything I’ve learned. My knee is bouncing wildly under the table as I wait for the results to load, every second dragging on like an eternity.
When the page finally loads, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of results.There are so many Eric Kingstons.My eyes dart across the screen, trying to sort through the flood of names and profiles. Each one feels like a possibility, but none of them fit the image of the man I’ve been with. I scroll and scroll, looking at all the potential matches, growing more frustrated by the second. And then, I see it. One of them has the middle nameMerrell.
It’s him.
I click on the profile so hard I’m afraid I might’ve just broken my trackpad. My heart leaps into my throat as the page loads. I hold my breath, feeling like everything I’ve been searching for is right on the other side of this click. When the page opens, I see that it’s a LinkedIn profile.
His résumé has popped up in front of me. It’s all there, laid out in neat little sections, each bullet point revealing more about the man I’ve been sharing a bed with. I scan the page, my eyes racing over the details. He’s not a detective. He’s not even in law enforcement.
Eric is a fuckingscreenwriter.
I blink, stunned, as I process the information. He’s supposedly worked on several film projects, some of which I’ve actually heard of. My mind is reeling.
I scroll farther down the page, taking in more of his résumé. But nothing on this page reveals that he’s a detective. There’s no mention of law enforcement, no indication that he’s ever worked in that field. My brain is struggling to make sense of this conflicting information.
Maybe he’s undercover?The thought feels far fetched, but at this point, I’m grasping for explanations. Maybe he gave me a fake name because he’s not allowed to use his real one.
Maybe he’s deep in some undercover operation, and the reason there was nothing in the paper about the suicide and police chase is that it’s all classified. Maybe it’s something he wanted to keep out of the public eye, something too sensitive to be made known. It could explain why there’s been such a shroud of secrecy around him.
