Ruined (Family Untied Book 1)

by S. A. McEwen

  No words pass between them; none need to. Ravi can see what his wife is thinking by the set of her jaw.

  She, too, knows what he is thinking, without even having to look at him.

  Nevertheless, she gives him a sidelong glance, to see if he knows that she knows that he knows.

  He is looking at her intently, but remains calm and poised.

  “Leave it,” he says softly. “You promised.”

  But he knows it’s no good.

  He’s seen that look in her eyes before.

  43

  The plan has been set in motion.

  The man hates these fucking “high class” whores, who charge ridiculous amounts of money. Like their pussy is any better than the next one.

  He likes to toy with them before he kills them.

  He likes to get them panting for his dough.

  He pretends to be such a model client. He’ll screen without question. He’ll offer a deposit. They’ll trot along to the booking thinking he’s “easy money.” A respectful client who knows how it all works and follows the rules.

  He makes them pay for it later, though.

  Oh yes.

  They’ve all paid the price for their slovenly ways.

  Now, he confirms the date and sends a picture of someone else’s license.

  He pays a cash deposit at an ATM.

  Then he waits. Patiently.

  Now, it’s just a matter of time.

  44

  By the time Natalie turns onto her street, she’s beyond exhausted.

  The day has taken so many turns in unexpected directions that she suddenly, desperately just wants to lie down.

  She pulls over opposite the garage door into the apartment car park and hesitates. There’s nothing in her fridge. Not even a bottle of wine to lament her day with.

  If ever there was a day for take away, this would be it.

  Slumping over the steering wheel, suddenly too tired to even hold her head up, she deliberates with closed eyes about whether she is even capable of driving any further. Perhaps delivery or even toast will do for dinner. She’s almost certain there’s at least some bread in the freezer.

  But even as she decides that toast will do, and she can put the car away for the night, there’s a sharp rap on her passenger window, then the large shape of a man slides alongside her into her car.

  45

  Colombo, Sri Lanka – August 1977

  Thirty-year-old Upeksha Coommaraswamy sits back on her heels, the stench of vomit strong in her nostrils.

  Her stomach is churning.

  Reports of widespread rioting throughout her homeland fill her with terror. Her fears, stirring uneasily inside her ever since the formation of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam the year prior, have proven well-founded.

  Initially, she had felt guilty for her lack of enthusiastic support. Her father had believed passionately in the future of a Tamil state. So much so that he had lost his life, protesting peacefully following the implementation of the Sinhala Only Act in 1956. Upeksha had only been nine at the time.

  For a while, in her youth, she was passionately and fervently interested in politics, partly as a way to stay connected to her father, and feel like he was proud of her.

  But now she feels dread, not hope.

  After trying for three years, she is finally pregnant.

  Her eldest brother did not return from work four days ago, and they do not know where he is.

  They keep getting reports on various acquaintances who have not been heard from since the riots started in Jaffna two weeks ago.

  What sort of future can she hope for, for the small life growing inside her, in these circumstances?

  Ravi is sitting on the edge of the bath next to her, one hand lightly on her back. He should be at work, but he has been unable to find any since being laid off earlier that year, ostensibly due to poor performance, despite being the most diligent and respected professor at the university.

  They don’t need to speak; both understand that it is not just the new life growing inside Upeksha that is making her nauseous. Reports of acts of violence have given life, dimensions, colour to all their fears.

  Both Ravi and Upeksha are past wanting to support their people. They want no part in civil war.

  They just want somewhere safe to raise their baby.

  46

  Natalie screams.

  The man looks surprised, and slightly irritated.

  After a few beats, Natalie recognises Detective Burns from that first day at her parents’ house.

  She can hear her heavy breathing, feel her heart thudding. Some detached part of her mind is interested to note that she didn’t endeavour to flee when presented with danger. Just stared at the intruder in shock.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, defensive. “I left you a message telling you I was waiting out front.”

  “Jesus,” Natalie mutters. “There’s someone killing escorts of colour and you just jump into my car without warning?”

  Relief is coursing through her, but also frustration that anyone could have so little empathy or insight into the power that they hold. That they just don’t think about how terrifying their actions could be.

  Natalie frowns, not able to remember when she last saw her phone.

  “Anyway,” the detective continues, as though terrifying someone could be brushed off after twenty-odd seconds and the conversation continue as normal. “I’ve been in touch with Detective Casey. She hasn’t been able to locate Griffin or get him on the phone. I was going to have a chat with you about Grant Boyd, so I thought I’d drop by to see if he was with you at the same time.”

  Though Natalie’s first thought is why he didn’t just call on both accounts, she’s too interested in what he has discovered about Grant to ask him. “And?” is all she says, her breathing slowly normalising.

  “We questioned him about Letitia, as you suggested. He wasn’t very cooperative. I think you probably summed him up nicely, actually. But Casey’s filled me in on the other cases. And he has an alibi for three of them. Mostly, he’s been behind bars. So if we are looking for a serial killer—and we believe that we are—he’s not our man.”

  Natalie slumps back in her seat. She didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t that. Surely a phone call would have sufficed for that information to be passed on to her?

  She wonders, then, if his visit is to check up on her. To ensure that she is okay, is her first generous thought, and she softens slightly. But then she thinks perhaps it’s more likely he’s checking that she’s not hiding Griffin—far less charitable, she knows, and slightly nonsensical.

  Usually, she might try to find out more. But she’s simply too tired to even talk.

  Her question is answered anyway though. Burns is watching her carefully.

  “However, we have gone back over all the descriptions provided by witnesses of people seen in the areas around where each victim was found. It’s not a lot to go on, as there aren’t really any defining features…but a couple of people saw someone matching Griffin’s description in the area of two of the cases. One of them, actually, was your mother. We’d like a photo, if you have one, to take back to these witnesses and see if they recognise him.”

  Natalie blinks and shakes her head.

  “No,” she says, and Burns frowns.

  “I mean, it’s not him. I’m sure of that. But yes, I’ll text you a photo. I don’t have many.” She feels confused and irritated. “But why would he invest months in dating someone? He’d be the first suspect now if I went missing. It doesn’t make any sense. You’re on the wrong track.”

  Her irritation growing, Natalie explains that she’ll text him later; she doesn’t have her phone. Then nods slightly toward the car park, indicating that that’s where she’s going, and that he’s dismissed.

  Burns hesitates slightly, then exits the car.

  47

  On Monday morning, Natalie feels as though a truck has not only run over her, but has
paused atop her bones for a while, crushing the life right out of her. Then reversed backward and forward a few times for good measure.

  She’s left several messages for Detective Casey, but can’t get through and hasn’t heard back.

  Not that Griffin has been trying to contact her anyway.

  Cup of tea in hand, Natalie slouches back to bed. She’s supposed to be seeing a new client at 11 a.m. Ordinarily, feeling like this, she’d just cancel the booking. But the client has paid a deposit which she doesn’t want to refund, so she thinks she might as well just get it over with.

  Also, she’s worked so little of late, she could really use the cash. Her savings has depleted more in the last three months than in the prior three years.

  Still, perhaps just a little more sleep, she thinks, crawling back into bed.

  She’s asleep in about twenty seconds.

  Natalie arrives at the hotel after significant effort.

  She really can’t be bothered today.

  Her parents haven’t spoken to her since she stormed out of their house. Not that she expected a follow-up call. More likely, she had expected that they would pretend it never happened. So she is surprised to get a text message—for the first time in living memory, cancelling Sunday lunch. Your mother is unwell, Ravi had texted, no curter than usual, but the accusation hanging in the ever-present unsaid stuff between them. Sunday lunch is cancelled.

  Natalie resisted the urge to suggest that perhaps she would have six days to recover between now and Sunday lunch. But she knows what message they want her to understand, and it’s quicker just to understand it than to pick it full of holes.

  In a way, she’s glad she didn’t cancel the client. Continuing with work feels like an act of resistance. A rebuttal of their rejection. Dismissal of their protest.

  But in another way it feels too hard, with all the unfinished business hanging over her.

  Sighing, Natalie steps out of the lift.

  She checks her phone.

  Brody.

  His driver’s license is in his text, albeit with a thumb over the photo and address.

  A unicorn, maybe?

  She snaps her phone shut, and knocks on the door.

  48

  Brody sits on the bed, waiting.

  Today will likely bore him.

  He needs to be “good.” Kind, respectful, easy to please.

  Sluts like Ivy don’t deserve “good.”

  Still, good things come to those who wait. This is all just due diligence, to make sure everything goes smoothly for the second “date.”

  The trick is to be a model client this first time.

  Leave it a few weeks.

  Then strike.

  That’s when the real fun begins.

  Today: it’s just a formality.

  He hopes to get it over with as quickly as he can without seeming odd.

  49

  When the door opens following her knock, Natalie steps back in shock.

  Something deep and primal and terrible kicks in, in a way that it simply didn’t in the car with Detective Burns.

  She has no time to think: adrenaline surges in her system and she turns and bolts as fast as her Loubs will allow her, before she even realises that’s what she’s chosen to do.

  Back at the lift, another couple look at her in surprise.

  Her eyes dart around frantically as she waits, her limbs twitching, her heart hammering. If they speak to her, she doesn’t hear.

  When the lift dings, she slips in with them, keeping close, like a shadow.

  The client hasn’t followed her.

  But the panic does. She runs out the revolving doors, her heart thrashing in her chest.

  And runs straight into her mother.

  50

  Colombo, Sri Lanka – August 1977

  Thirty-two-year-old Kandiah Coommaraswamy wakes up in excruciating pain.

  It takes him some time to work out what is happening.

  He remembers that he was walking home from work.

  He works as an electrician and runs his own business. He loves his work. He loves being able to find a problem and fix it—the orderly nature of it. The way that every problem has a story that he can find and fix.

  His skills are renowned around Colombo.

  Over the past few weeks—since the riots had broken out—the Sinhalese government had started forcing him to work on army premises. The Tamil Tigers accused him of betraying his people. They threatened to kill him if he didn’t stop helping the army.

  The army threatened to kill him if he did stop helping them.

  He has spent the last week in hushed conversations with his family. They all know that whoever follows through on these threats is unlikely to stop at him. If he is in danger, so is his family.

  Upeksha and Ravi, Kandiah and his family, Shehara and her family, and their mother are preparing to leave. They have paid so much money. False documents and a quick exit are not cheap. And though Ravi could show the appropriate qualifications and skills to secure permanent residency as a skilled migrant, they don’t have enough time. They need to leave now.

  All this is irrelevant now, though, as Kandiah slowly comes to understand that his hands have been nailed to a road. He has been told of such stories, but never believed they were true. That the Sinhalese army use a railroad spike on dark mountain roads, leaving their victims the choice of tearing their hands off the road or being crushed by trucks that cannot see them in the dark.

  How could it be true, because who would do such a thing to another human being?

  Now, in the dark, he can hear laughter in the bushes, as the soldiers take bets on which he will choose.

  51

  Natalie and Upeksha stare at each other, both equally alarmed.

  Upeksha casts a quick glance over Natalie’s person, then takes her elbow and directs her firmly down the street.

  “My car is just down here,” she says, her voice low, her grip fierce.

  She doesn’t let go of Natalie’s elbow until she has shunted her into the passenger seat, after which she slams the door shut. She walks briskly to the driver’s side and gets in, locking the car after her, businesslike and efficient.

  Natalie continues to stare at her. Her heart is still pounding erratically, her breathing heavy. She can’t think. She can’t even put her seatbelt on. Upeksha reaches across her, buckling her in in one smooth motion, then starting the engine.

  Without waiting for information or instructions, she starts driving toward Natalie’s flat.

  After ten minutes of silence, Natalie’s brain starts to function again.

  “Why are you here?” she asks, her voice uncertain. She means at the hotel, even though the very fact that they’re driving away from it is what has allowed the adrenaline to subside and the sense of imminent danger and the panic to pass.

  “What happened?” Upeksha shoots back, her voice calm but firm.

  Natalie just shrugs and stares out the window. As her system struggles to process the surge of adrenaline, she feels washed out. Astonishingly, she feels like crying. Again.

  With Upeksha, that would absolutely never do.

  With some effort, Natalie tries to focus.

  Trying to claw back her way to herself, she kicks off her shoes and throws them into the backseat, along with her wig. She’s trying to emit defiance, but she’s shaking, and her mother can see it, despite her bravado. But she can’t yet make sense of what has just happened, let alone find words to try to share it with the one person who doesn’t like to be shared with. Who never wants to know.

  Not without collapsing in a howling mess.

  Natalie fights against her tears fiercely. It feels like self-protection—like life and death, almost. She doesn’t understand it, but vulnerability with Upeksha has never felt like a safe place. Her response is automatic.

  “What happened?” Upeksha repeats, her voice harder this time. Steely, almost. “Something’s wrong. Don’t pretend. A mother knows.”


  Natalie capitulates.

  Later, she would think back over the conversation and feel confused by how much she shared. She might even laugh: an ugly, bitter laugh. Did you know all through my childhood? she might think to herself. What about through high school? What about through life?

  But now, frightened and confused, she answers Upeksha’s questions.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I had a client there. I didn’t stay. That client...he looked…” Her words dry up, fade out. She can’t make sense of what is happening.

  Because that client? He looked just like her boyfriend.

  Disarmed by Upeksha’s sudden appearance of “wanting to know,” Natalie tells her all of it.

  About Griffin not existing. About his phone being linked to a dead escort. And about her fleeing her booking just now because the client looked just like Griffin.

  About her fear that she might be going mad.

  You never give up hope entirely, it seems. Connection to her mother seems worth trying for, still. After all these years.

  When her guard is down. When she feels vulnerable.

  She’s not capable of thinking clearly. But when she mulls over it later, unsettled, it seems to her that some primal part of her still moved her toward connecting, still seemed to think it worth the risk. Still thought it was possible. It seemed right there, so close Natalie could feel her longing more strongly than she had felt it in thirty years.

  Maybe this time, her whole being seemed to be screaming at her. Trying to catapult her into her mother’s arms, and some imagined blissful comfort she might find there. Being taken care of by her mother.