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)
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 fingers fumbling 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 name Merrell.
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 fucking screenwriter.
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.
No, then him paying off Mari wouldn’t make sense. Him planting fake police lights around my yard. Even an undercover detective wouldn’t do that.
I realize I’m grasping at straws. Every theory I come up with feels like a stretch, but I can’t stop myself from thinking them through. I have to make sense of this. As long as there are still straws to grasp at, I’m going to hoard them.
What have I gotten myself into?
I open up a new tab, my breath catching in my throat as I stare at the information in front of me. There it is—a phone number listed for Eric Kingston, bold and clear against the white backdrop of the web page. I pull up the contact information for Saint in my phone, my hands trembling as I compare the numbers.
I glance between the laptop screen and my phone screen, willing them not to match, praying that this is just some bizarre coincidence. But no. It’s a perfect match.
The realization hits me smack in the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. My phone slips from my hand, tumbling to the floor with a dull thud, but I barely register the sound. I stand up so quickly my chair nearly topples over. I pick my phone up from the floor and slip it into my back pocket, then take two steps away from my computer, as if the glowing screen has suddenly become threatening, as if the truth staring back at me might physically hurt me. The room spins around me, my thoughts racing in frantic circles.