Ruined

by Fen Wilde

  The two women are silent for a while, staring at each other.

  “Just go to the police. Get them to check Griffin out. You don’t have to tell him. But…” Eloise studies Natalie’s face. “Don’t see him for a while, okay?”

  For the rest of that night, back in her apartment, Natalie gathers information from her new friends.

  Five dead escorts.

  Sephora.

  Catey.

  Minna.

  Kiki.

  Letitia.

  She asks if anyone knew their real names. If they had boyfriends. Even new ones.

  She doesn’t discover much. Like her, most escorts keep their private lives private. Even with her newfound camaraderie, Natalie has no intention of telling these women her real name, or real details about her life. She doesn’t know their stories. And in Natalie’s experience, untrustworthy people are statistically likely to be everywhere. Even in Facebook groups purporting to help people.

  At about midnight, her work phone pings, and she stiffens.

  Melb Aaron: So I guess you didn’t like the painting.

  Despite herself, Natalie’s lips twitch.

  If she was going with her gut, she would say that this young man was optimistic but harmless.

  Then she frowns. But what did my gut say about Griffin? Nothing much at all!

  She doesn’t really think that Griffin is a serial killer. Anyone who brings soup and watches Buffy with you can’t be a killer, can they?

  But she can’t shake the unsettling feeling that something doesn’t quite add up.

  She hesitates, then texts Aaron back.

  Natalie: Sorry. Some weird stuff going on. It was beautiful. Can I buy it off you?

  She hits send, then immediately regrets it. Does she really want a reminder of those feelings taking up a whole wall in her tiny flat?

  Still, she has bigger things to think about, and she pushes her phone aside and looks at her meagre notes.

  Then something else occurs to her.

  In her head, she can hear her mother clicking her tongue in frustration, but she types another message into the group anyway:

  Were Sephora, Catey, Minna, and Kiki WOC?

  30

  Catelyn dropped to the floor beside Brody. Blood was trickling down her face from split skin on her temple. A dark purple blotch was already blooming around it.

  Blood had also splattered across her bright yellow dress from Brody’s nose. He was conscious, but so terrified and shocked he might as well not have been. His father had never actually hit him before. Shouted, cursed, pushed a little, yes. But a full strength, adult blow? No.

  Brian sneered down at his other two children. “Which one of you two little pussies is going to come and help me fix the tractor?”

  He was already walking toward the door, the parcel under one arm, not waiting for a response. Andrew pushed his chair back so sharply it cluttered to the floor.

  “He has school!” Catelyn protested weakly.

  Brian did not even pause on his way out of the house. And Andrew scurried after him.

  Catelyn helped Brody into the ute for the school run. Usually, the kids caught the bus, waiting at the end of the drive, Catelyn watching them anxiously out the kitchen window. They looked so little, so vulnerable.

  Andrew was already pulling away from her. Where Marilyn and Brody flung themselves into her arms, confusion and terror in their eyes, Andrew hung back. In some ways, it made her worry less for him. If he was Brian’s ally, he was less likely to be his target.

  But Catelyn also knew how quickly that could turn.

  And in the long run, aligning himself with Brian would only ever lead to ill.

  31

  Melb Aaron: How about an exchange? The painting for a date? ;)

  The time stamp is 1:32 a.m.

  Me: You’re a night owl, I see. Did you by any chance notice how much older than you I am? You should take someone more energetic out for a drink. Someone who can reply to your messages at 1 a.m.

  Natalie is used to men wanting to date her. Often, they are clients. She wonders what it is. Why do clients want to date an escort? She’s heard stories of escorts dating clients who eventually make them give up escorting. Do they just want the goods for free? Or is it the perfect image that they get used to? The plucked, waxed, made-up, blow-waved flawlessness that she’s selling?

  But no one can keep that up full-time. Sooner or later, the ordinary woman is going to show through.

  Sometimes, Natalie wonders if she’s doing women a disservice—promoting the idea that women are like this. Perfectly presented, insatiable for sex, accommodating men’s every whim. She likes to reassure herself that the good clients—the ones she goes the extra mile for, and is happy to see again and again—are smart enough to know that it’s just a service. They know the boundaries and they don’t press against them.

  It’s the stupid ones you have to worry about.

  She dismisses Aaron for the time being, turning her attention to a more troubling text.

  Griffin: Morning, Ivy. I’m in Sydney a day early. I’d love to see you. I know this is a very difficult time for you. I just want to see your face. We’ll do whatever you want to do. Please?

  She hasn’t actually seen or spoken to Griffin since Letitia died. She doesn’t seriously think Griffin is capable of hurting her or murdering anyone, and waves a hand in front of her own face dismissively when she thinks of her agitation over the past few days.

  How silly, she thinks.

  Still, the complex thoughts and feelings about the pregnancy, the wondering if perhaps being in a relationship might be worth it after all, seem empty and pointless again. How is a man, let alone a white man, ever going to understand how she feels about this?

  She feels desperately lonely. Letitia is the one who would have understood, and she can’t talk to her. The devastation every time she remembers that is crushing all the motivation clean out of her. She can barely force herself to cook a meal, let alone converse with people. But while she recognises her loneliness, she doesn’t recognise that her retreat back into solitude doesn’t solve her problem. That what she’s protecting herself from is not pain, but vulnerability. And you have to get close to people for them to support you in the way that she longs to be supported.

  She doesn’t see herself as a herd animal, wired for connection.

  She thinks she’s strongest on her own.

  Feeling like it’s all pointless anyway, she goes to send Griffin a message telling him she doesn’t want to see him anymore. What’s the point? is all she can think. But just as she goes to click on the message icon and compose something short and to the point, she sees she has ten new notifications in Facebook. She opens that app instead.

  People have commented on her question.

  She’d forgotten all about it.

  As she scans their answers, her heart starts to sink.

  32

  Eventually, Natalie phones Detective Casey.

  She’d ummed and ahhed, pulled her phone out, put it away. Pulled it out again and read Griffin’s message fifteen times.

  But she can’t think clearly, and she doesn’t trust herself to make a sensible decision.

  After greeting the detective and an awkward pause, she launches into her concerns.

  “I met someone recently. I know it sounds crazy. But I just want you to check him out. I know it sounds paranoid. But—”

  Detective Casey cuts Natalie off gently. “Tell me what happened.”

  Her heart is beating too fast in her chest, her underarms clammy. She had half expected to be brushed off. Being listened to is making her even more nervous.

  “A new client made a booking with me a few days ago. He told me on arrival he didn’t want sex, he wanted to date me, and he showed me a painting he’d done of me. He’d seen me staring at a portrait in the Sydney Gallery. The painting was excellent. He’s very talented. But when he was telling me why he wanted to paint me, he used the exact phr
ase that the guy I’ve been seeing used to introduce himself. That he’d seen me staring at the portrait of Jack Charles, that I looked like I wanted to morph into the painting. And that just seemed so odd.”

  Natalie’s voice is high, her words rushing together, but she wants to get it all out before she’s cut off. Despite the detective’s gentle tone, she expects her status as an escort to reduce her credibility. And this story to reduce it even further, no matter what her gut says.

  “And I realised, looking at the painting, that Griffin—that’s the guy I’ve just started seeing—had introduced himself when I was dressed for a work appointment. With a wig on. So, long hair. All done up. Makeup. The full works. And in the gallery, I had no wig. My hair is very short. I had no makeup on. Something just doesn’t add up. I just thought they might all be connected. It seemed like a chance encounter but…I thought…”

  Natalie’s voice trails off. It sounds threadbare at best. But the detective doesn’t dismiss her.

  “Look, it’s not a lot to go on, you’re right. It doesn’t really warrant looking into him. But it does sound odd. So let’s just see if anything jumps out at me. Do you have his full name and date of birth?”

  “Griffin Edwards. That’s all I have. About my age, so about 1980.”

  “No middle name? Or month of birth? What about an address?”

  “No. Sorry.” Natalie suddenly feels stupid. Griffin is an unusual name, but still. It’s not a lot to go on.

  She can hear tapping at the other end of the line. Detective Casey doesn’t speak for a minute.

  “Hmmm, you’re in luck,” she says eventually. “Unusual name. I only have three in Australia. Let’s have a look. No, that one’s too young, 1999. I have one born in November 1975. That would make him…forty-two. An address in Brisbane. Does that fit?”

  Natalie turns this over in her mind. “He said he owned a house in Melbourne, but he travels a lot for work. Lives out of hotels a lot. Wait, his phone number, would that help?” Natalie taps through her phone, then reads it out.

  “I have nothing with that number coming up. Look—I need to go. But leave it with me. I’ll look at the files of the other homicides against that number. What were their names?”

  Natalie gives the detective the details she has gathered on the other escorts. She hesitates, then ploughs ahead.

  “There’s one more thing. All the dead escorts.” Her voice catches in her throat. She struggles for a second, feeling like she can’t breathe. Finally, she manages to get it out: “None of them were white.”

  There’s the briefest of pauses. Natalie isn’t sure whether she imagined it or not. All Detective Casey says is, “I’ll have a look. See if anything fits. In the meantime, if you’re worried, don’t see this guy for a while, or stay in public places, at least. Keep safe. And keep in touch.”

  33

  Despite this advice, Natalie calls Griffin.

  I’d know if he was a nutter, she reassures herself. I’ve met enough of them to be able to pick them in my sleep.

  Still, she tries to remember the details of their meeting. The Uber prang—you couldn’t fake that, she’s almost certain. Sydney is too busy. There’s too great a chance of getting stuck in traffic, losing sight of her. And what Uber driver would agree to it?

  Then again, was Griffin in an Uber? She had assumed so, but perhaps he had a friend driving. He seemed to have enough money. Maybe a minor prang and the associated costs were peanuts in his world.

  But even considering these ideas makes Natalie feel like she is losing her mind.

  It’s been a stressful few months, she tells herself. The pregnancy, the self-doubt. The abnormalities.

  Grant Boyd moving back to Linfield.

  Letitia.

  It doesn’t seem unreasonable to think the strain of it all has gotten to her. Her work means that she’s always on edge, to some degree. That’s how you stay safe. Escorts can’t afford to be complacent.

  What’s not to say that it all just hasn’t unhinged some screw in my mind somewhere?

  But “morphing” into a portrait is a peculiar, particular phrase.

  She keeps coming back to the fact that she hasn’t heard anyone else utter it in the last twenty-odd years. Probably not since studying some obscure text in high school. It seems too unlikely that two men—both enamoured with her—would use it to describe her in the exact same scenario, no matter how readable the expression on her face.

  Something is wrong, and she doesn’t know what.

  But doing something is certainly better than doing nothing.

  She can’t wait around to see what a busy detective comes up with.

  Also: she trusts her gut. Whatever’s wrong, she doesn’t think Griffin might hurt her.

  It’s too preposterous.

  He’s too thoughtful.

  And the only way she can assess the situation further is by contact. So against the detective’s good advice, she calls him anyway.

  “God, I’ve missed you,” is all Griffin says when Natalie opens the door to him. He pushes her into the back of it as she closes it behind him, his hands coming round her waist, his lips finding hers.

  He looks tanned, and fit, and hungry for her. All Natalie’s plans to talk go immediately to hell.

  Afterwards, panting amidst tangled sheets, her brain tries to catch up.

  She had such good plans. To keep her distance. To ask some questions. A flirty question about his birthday, at least.

  But just like that first time, his sex appeal turned everything upside down.

  She just couldn’t think around this man. He was too sexy, too commanding, too normal to want to resist him.

  And now, looking over at him, his grin wide, his eyes warm, she just wants to snuggle into him and let him take control of all things, not just sex, for a while.

  She feels incredibly, incredibly tired.

  “What shall we do this afternoon?” he asks, reaching for her, running his fingers across her stomach, lust already lighting up his eyes again.

  “The gallery?” Natalie asks. “A walk in the park?” All the thoughts of the past few days have left her too agitated to be still. She wants something to do, something to look at. Something to discuss.

  In the end, they go to the gallery. But Natalie realises it’s a nice segue into talking, anyway.

  “How did you recognise me, after the Uber prang?” she asks, glancing at Griffin. “I didn’t have a wig on in the gallery, when you saw me looking at Jack Charles. I was all dressed up, with hair and makeup, when you saw me on the street.”

  Griffin looks surprised, and doesn’t miss a beat. “You still look the same,” he says, watching her curiously.

  “So I needn’t bother with the makeup, then?” she teases, not entirely satisfied. Her makeup is very…thorough.

  “No, you needn’t! Not for my sake. You don’t need it,” Griffin says, still watching her closely. He looks earnest. “You’re stunning without a trace of the stuff. Although I do like a bit of hair to tug on.” He grins, suddenly pulling her close and tugging on her hair to expose her neck, which he kisses lightly.

  Natalie swoons immediately, opening her neck up to him further.

  God, this is ridiculous, she thinks. It’s only been an hour, and I already want him again.

  But she doesn’t have time to think further, because he’s edging her toward the toilets.

  “We can’t!” she squeaks, mortified. “People will see!”

  “You should be more worried about them hearing, with the things I want to do to you,” he growls in her ear, his voice so sexy, his desire for her so arousing that she actually can’t help herself—she lets him direct her without resistance. He glances quickly each way outside the disabled toilet to check that no one is watching, then pushes her inside, quickly scanning the back of the door for cleanliness before pressing her up against it.

  His mouth is on her immediately, his urgency greater than hers for once. His hands are already working her
skirt over her hips, gripping her arse, sliding his fingers inside her.

  “Fuck,” he hisses into her neck, feeling her wetness, biting her shoulder, then spinning her around, tugging at her underwear.

  Natalie spreads her legs, bracing herself against the door. She wishes she had something better to hold on to. But Griffin is inside her immediately, grasping her hips, his cock sliding deliciously deep, banging into her cervix as he thrusts, hard and fast. He’s trying not to grunt, but it only serves to make the sound strangled and amazingly hot.

  It’s rough, primal.

  Sexy.

  Griffin’s balls are slapping between her thighs, and Natalie reaches between her legs and cups them, squeezing gently. He groans loudly, thrusts one last time and comes. It only took about thirty seconds.

  Collapsing against her back, pressing her into the door, his cock squirting and flexing inside her, Natalie feels his fingers at her clit. His cock still feels huge.

  “Come for me, baby,” he growls into her ear, nibbling at her neck, his breath hot against her. “Moan my name. Shout it out, so all those fuckers out there know that you belong to me. That my cock is inside you. That you bend over for me. That you take my cock, hard.”

  His voice is low and urgent, his need beyond his cock inside her. It feels so possessive, like he wants to stamp his ownership on her, and Natalie groans. His urgency and ownership of her is as sexy as his cock. She bucks back against his still half-hard cock, her insides gripping him tightly as her orgasm washes over her too, hard and fast.

  It’s only later, as his cock softens and slips out of her, the sound of their breathing deafening against the quiet outside, that she feels his cum running down her leg, and realises he didn’t stop to put on a condom.