Several images are returned to me. I begin to scroll through them, but none are of Saint. They’re all men who vaguely resemble him. I keep scrolling and scrolling and then I see a picture that makes my heart drop.
It looks just like him.
Please be him.
I click on the picture and it takes me to a Facebook page. The page is private, but the name isn’t. Eric Kingston. The only thing available to the public is profile pictures. I scroll through them and there’s no doubt that this is Saint.
Saint is Eric Kingston.
Who is Eric Kingston?
I close my eyes and blow out a shaky breath.
I close out the private Facebook page and open up Google. I type in the new name and several hits come back.
I scroll through them until I find a link for Instagram. I click on it, but that page is private, too. Fuck.
I notice the display name on Instagram does list a middle name of Merrell.
Eric Merrell Kingston.
My hands are shaking as I reach for my wallet. I take out my credit card and open up a background check website. I enter my payment information and the name Eric Merrell Kingston. I wait for the results to come back.
There are so many Eric Kingstons. I scroll through them, looking at all the Eric Kingstons that could possibly be a match. Only one of them has the middle name of Merrell. I click on it so hard, I’m afraid I just broke my trackpad.
I click on a link for his LinkedIn page and find Eric’s résumé. I read through it, learning more about him in one minute than I’ve learned in two weeks.
Eric is a screenwriter. He’s worked on several film projects—even ones I’ve heard of. Under interests, he states that he’s a reader. The site hasn’t been updated this year, but everything seems recent. Nothing on this page reveals he’s a detective.
Maybe he’s undercover?
Maybe he gave me a fake name because he’s not allowed to give me his real one. And maybe there was nothing about the suicide and police chase in the paper because it’s not something he wanted revealed to the public.
I realize I’m grasping at straws, here. But as long as there are straws to grasp, I’m going to hoard them.
I open up on the screen that lists a phone number for Eric Kingston. I compare the phone number to the number I have in my phone for Saint.
It’s a perfect match.
I drop my phone and stand up, backing two steps away from my computer as if it’s going to hurt me.
Why would he lie to me about who he is?
It makes no sense.
I scan the screen and see that his address is listed in Los Angeles. That’s hours away from here. Why would he pretend to live here?
At this point, I don’t care. I just want to leave.
I grab my phone and slip it into my pocket. I rush to my bedroom and pull my suitcase out from under the bed. I don’t bother folding anything. I toss everything from the closet and the dresser into the suitcase, and then pile my toiletries on top of that.
The whole time I’m packing, I’m crying. Shaking. Praying. Trying not to think about everything I’ve done in the past two weeks.
How could I be so careless?
I pull my charger out of the wall, zip my suitcase, and grab my car keys off the dresser. I know I’m leaving half of my stuff lying out around the cabin, but I don’t care. I need to get out of here.
I walk into the kitchen and scream.
Saint doesn’t even turn around at the sound of my voice. He’s standing at the table…staring down at my laptop screen.
I take a step back into my bedroom. I try to map out escape routes, but unless I can somehow climb out of the bedroom window before he reaches me, the only way out of this cabin is through the front and back doors.
And I’d have to pass Saint to get to either.
I bring my hands up to my mouth to stifle my cry. Saint reaches a hand out to my laptop and slowly shuts it.
When he begins to turn around to look at me, I take another step back. His eyes land on my suitcase first. He clenches his jaw. Shakes his head. “You’re leaving?”
I bring my hand down to my stomach and clench my shirt. My whole body is shaking now. “You aren’t a detective,” I