Chapter 10 - RevelatFINs

I stood in Christian's garage letting the cool evening air wash in around me from the open garage door. I took a deep breath in and let it settle deep in my chest. These past several days have been absolutely crazy. I was still worried about Christian but it would be nice to have some alone time, maybe work on some of my fanfictions. My latest Harry Potter fic, Defense against the Shark Arts, had been a surprise hit with the fans - I only wrote to get some of my recent shark based anxieties onto the page but there's no accounting for taste, I suppose. I wink, at no one.

I turned to head back in and noticed a large filing cabinet next to the door to the house labeled 'CONTRACTS [sex]'. I let out that breath from earlier in a gasp. It couldn't be, could it?

No - it couldn't be. But - could it?

I mean, it probably isn't. But it might be?

"Alright, Ana", I say to myself, "we'll just take a quick peek to satisfy our curiosity" and I dump out the armload of files I was carrying onto the living room floor. Returning shortly thereafter with an open bottle of wine and my laptop, I spread the pile out in front of me. Opening one at random, it appears to be the boilerplate sex contract (eugh, I still have to shiver, even just thinking that. The lawyer who drafted these is very high on my 'do not meet' list) that Christian's sleazo lawyer cooked up. Honestly, I'm surprised by how many people signed this nonsense thing - there must be dozens of manila folders spread out in front of me.

Doesn't look like these contracts include headshots or anything - disappointing. How dare Christian make me work for my snooping. At the very least, if there's one thing an investigative reporter is good at, it's snooping. Well, really, that's the main thing an investigative reporter has to be good at. Either that, or getting pictures of Spiderman.

There's not much to go off in the files themselves - the only differences being the names, dietary requirements for the personal chef, and the agreed upon sex acts. Alright - the file I was looking at belonged to a Jane F. - far too generic a name to search for. Really need to find a unique name in this pile. Let's see - Tina P., nope - Linda B., nuh-uh - Brian J., yeah, you get it Christian, but also, no - ah, here we go - Franjelope Q. 'Poor girl,' I think, and then the search results finish loading - 'Damn, girl!' I think. Looks like her body decided to compensate very generously in the looks department for her absolutely disappointing performance in the having a sensible name (through no fault of her own) department.

I scrolled down past the pictures to see if our dear Franjelope had any public social media pages for me to creep on, but the first several results were recent news articles about a missing girl. I clicked through and choked on my wine - Franjelope had gone missing! Oh God, what a shame. Did Christian know? I can't really tell him without revealing the depths of my snooping. The article was dated a few months back - it's possible he already knows, I tell myself.

Wait- I cross reference the date on the article with the date she signed the contract in front of me. They're within a week of each other. My stomach drops. I scan the body of the article. Single. Withdrawn. Friends say that she's been gone for long periods of time and refuses to say where she's been. Authorities suspect drugs were involved.

Christian couldn't be behind this, right? He can be intimidating, yeah, but that's mostly because he's too socially awkward (or busy thinking about sharks) to really pull off a warm, welcoming persona. Welp, there's only one way to find out.

Dear Google, "Tina P. Missing". Enter.

Shit.

"Linda B. Missing". Enter.

"Tina P. Missing". Enter.

"Brian J. Missing". Enter.

Fuck.

That absolute rat bastard! He had me convinced with his fucking sharks routine but I've been so wrapped up in emotions I just kept giving him the benefit of the doubt. That first night should have been a major red flag - there's no way I 'slipped' and fell in that tank of his. Damn it, Ana! All a guy has to do is be hot and complement you and all your investigative sense flies right out of your god damned head! Well, he's in for it now.

He messed with the wrong bitch.