Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Wait. The picture!
I freeze mid-pace, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me. The selfie I took with him. Maybe I can use that. Maybe I can do an image search on Google and find something that will lead me to who he really is.
I rush back to my laptop, practically throwing myself into the chair. My fingers tremble as I unlock my phone and find the image buried in my private folder. The picture of us together, both smiling, his arm draped casually over my shoulders. It feels eerie now, knowing that the man in the picture isn’t who he said he was. I quickly email the image to myself, my heart hammering in my chest as I open my inbox. The seconds it takes for the email to appear feel like an eternity, but once it’s there, I click on it without hesitation.
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.