Chapter 8: Suspects and Surveillance

I shared my theory with Marissa. She shook her head emphatically.

She insisted, “No way. My friends would never do something like that. I don’t even have a boyfriend. My roommates are all good people.”

She insisted she had few friends, no boyfriend, and only talked to teachers and her roommates—all of whom were good people, she said.

I wanted to believe her, but I’d seen too much to trust anyone blindly. I told her gently, “Sometimes the people closest to us are the ones who hurt us most.”

I felt sorry for her innocence. For adults, it’s second nature not to truly trust others. You always have to watch your back, even with friends and family.

I remembered my mom’s advice: “Don’t let your guard down, Eddie. Not for anyone.” I wondered if Marissa had ever been warned like that.

Though everyone around Marissa was a suspect, her roommates seemed the most likely.

I made a mental list—names, majors, social media handles. I’d dig deeper, no matter how uncomfortable it got.

Wherever there are women, there’s drama. Maybe she’d unknowingly offended them and suffered this cruel revenge.

I tried not to stereotype, but I’d seen enough dorm drama to know that grudges could get ugly. Still, this was something else entirely.

I decided to investigate my own way.

I spent the night researching surveillance gear, reading up on privacy laws, and figuring out how to get the info without tipping anyone off.

I bought a modified wireless router and gave it to Marissa, telling her to swap it with the old one in her dorm.

I explained, “Just say the old one broke. This new one will work better—and I’ll be able to monitor the network for anything weird.”

"Just say the dorm router broke, so you replaced it. This one can capture data packets and will send me all the messages and browsing history from the Wi-Fi. If your roommates say anything suspicious, I’ll know."

I tried to make it sound like a high-tech security upgrade, not a spy tool. She hesitated, but finally agreed.

Marissa was hesitant about spying on them, but did as I asked.

She texted me a photo of the new router plugged in, looking nervous. I promised her it was for her own safety.

So I started monitoring everything in the dorm.

I set up alerts for keywords—ransom, money, Marissa’s name. I watched the data stream in, feeling like a hacker in a movie.

If I hadn’t, I’d never have known—their group chat shattered my worldview.

The messages were brutal—mean girl stuff, but worse. They joked about Marissa behind her back, called her names, wished awful things on her. "Hope she gets cancelled on TikTok," one wrote. "Maybe someone’ll finally teach her a lesson."

Marissa thought of her three roommates as close friends. But in their secret group chat, they called her all kinds of vile names, saying things like “hope she gets her face ruined by hot coffee” or “hope she gets lured away by some creep.”

I screenshot the worst messages, debating whether to show Marissa. I decided against it—for now.

Just reading it made my blood boil.

I wanted to march into that dorm and confront them, but I knew I had to play it smart.

Still, I didn’t find any evidence of big money transfers or suspicious conversations. They didn’t seem involved in the kidnapping.

I checked Venmo, PayPal, even crypto wallets. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just gossip and petty complaints.

But one thing caught my attention: all three were playing a mobile game called “Old Gods.”

They messaged about it constantly—sharing codes, bragging about high scores. I’d never heard of it before.

Funny thing—I’d seen that game on my boss’s phone too.

It was a weird coincidence. I made a note to look into it later.