Page 34 of Taste of Addiction

I start with Mark Tanner. I use one of my personal photos for the search, but I also retrieve one of him from the web that is of higher quality. The app spends several minutes processing the match and buzzes when the search is over. Ten photos supposedly match his face—which doesn’t seem like many. I guess Mark keeps a low profile and tries to avoid much of an online presence.

I really wish Zander was here right now to help me navigate this challenge. He would know the best way to organize all of the information I am digging up. Instead, I have to go back to basics and just copy and paste the images I gather into a blank document, taking notes as I go. Doing things this way helps me to see them all on one screen, instead of having to flip through each individually.

Half of the photos I gather on Mark are solo images where he is attending a charity event or a headshot for his online resume page. The other half are images where he appears to be chatting with a group of men. Some are of high quality, some grainy, and some are mistakes—featuring someone who is not Mark at all. I stare at each person in the photos, and for the clear ones, I run searches on the participants’ faces, just to see if something else stands out. I need to catch a break. Just one small break.

The last photo I look at from the Mark Tanner group has a girl on his arm. Oh no. Penny. According to Graham, Mark used Penny as one of his escorts. Then, when she got drugged, Graham worked at dismantling his escort service. He didn’t actually need to though because when three girls died from overdoses, it was a natural event to shut everything down.

I run Penny’s face through the software and come up empty. For a girl barely younger than I, I’m shocked she doesn’t have a social media page, at the very least. Maybe she did at one point and her older brother scrubbed the Internet free of her face. I wouldn’t put it past him.

In one of the photos Claire took and sent me, I have a decent view of Paul. His face also appears in the banner for the Campus Smoothie Cafe’s social media page. I use that photo first and run it through the software.

While the images load, I take a break and exit the library to go make some pasta salad with the veggies, meat, and cheese that are in containers in the fridge. I boil some water on the stove and add the dry pasta from the pantry to get it soft. While I wait for the food to be ready, I crack open a can of Coke and swallow two more extra strength Tylenol.

I am used to walking around with a headache, but this one is particularly bad. Maybe the added stress of knowing that Graham and Sophia are spending the weekend together has made my brain swell with the thoughts of them making memories as a fake couple. I wonder why he is not texting me or calling. I doubt it is due to a lack of Wi-Fi connection. The longer he goes without contacting me, the more my mind drifts to a place where my worst fears congregate and rally against me.

I plate up my pasta and add some salad dressing. Then I make my way back to the library. I turn to walk into the room and nearly crash into Owen.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say loudly, placing a hand over my heart to try to calm it.

“Didn’t see you there, ma’am. It’s me who should be apologizing for scaring you.”

Owen and Malcolm are the least familiar men to me who have been frequenting this safe house. However, both are nice and respectful. I wonder if Collins is on a break or chatting with Graham. I am sure with Sophia gone, there is less need to hover over me like he has been for days. I can’t get into a fight with the air.

“No problem. Just taking a break to make some lunch,” I explain, pointing down to my food.

“Looks good too,” he says with a friendly smile. “Oh, and Miss McFee?”

“Yeah?”

“My mug of cookies was a real nice surprise. I really do appreciate you including me on your gift list this year.”

“Oh, of course! Glad you liked everything.”

When I get back to my desk, I see the search is complete, and eight photos match for Paul. Several are from when he was at a different university. One is of him graduating from a school in upstate New York. His degrees? Forensic science and international studies. His name? Not Paul. It is listed as Carson Tillman. He was a lacrosse star and honor student.

I knew he transferred to River Valley U, but why would he be attending my school if he already is done and using a different name? Something is not adding up. Plus, he told me during the night of the Halloween party that he was studying communications. This was after Skeleton Man gave me a completely different story.

I am not surprised Paul lied to me. He has been lying about everything from the first moment we met. The switch of the skeleton costume was enough of a red flag. I found language books in his closet when I went snooping around that night. They were of the same languages I heard Mark speaking with Benjamin, Samson, and Edward.

I place my head down on the desk and sigh into my forearms. Why is everything so complicated? Paul doesn’t even bring books with him to the Smoothie Cafe. Agency girls are getting drugged, and Paul seems to have rescued a few. Or acted like he is being the hero. Maybe he is the Dark Hero.

When my eyes start to blur, I run back to my room to get my flash drive that I carry in my purse. I pop it into the port and save my consolidated work. Then I text Claire to help me get the names for every agency girl she knows who has been drugged. She must be bored because even on a Saturday evening, she responds immediately with a list. I scroll through the university database and find the email addresses I need. I type out my request using my private account that has no attachment to my real name.

Hello,

I am a reporter trying to gain insight on your recent incident on campus or near campus regarding being drugged. If you can provide any details about the moments leading up to the incident, please do so. I will preserve your anonymity. I am simply trying to figure out if there are any similarities to try to help stop this from ever happening again. We are women. We have a voice. We will not be just another number or statistic. Let’s stick together.

Feel free to email me back with another address, if you are more comfortable doing so.

Sincerely,

A Victim Too

I log out of my account and carry everything out of the library. I take a stop in the kitchen and find Owen grabbing a bottled water.

“Need anything, ma’am?” he asks politely.

“My head hurts so badly. I keep getting these horrible migraines that are nearly debilitating. Makes me nauseous and sensitive to light.”

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