Hyena
The afternoon of Jeffrey Epstein’s arrest in 2019 for sex trafficking dozens of minors, my hands trembled as I scrolled through victims’ stories of abuse. I ravaged Google, devouring story after story of his pedophilic transgressions only to find her name alongside his, everywhere. Ghislaine Maxwell appeared in nearly every account, paralyzing me in a snakepit of nausea and pins and needles. Why did I know this woman? I searched my phone, G G G Ghislaine. Her number popped up along with several emails, all about working for her. That’s when I remembered.
In 2012, my NYC friend Camille* was in LA and invited me to join her and a friend for dinner at the Chateau Marmont. Months earlier, my father had suddenly died and my impulsive move from NYC to LA landed me in a sprawl of friendless solitude more vast than I’d sought. Camille was luring me out through her cheeky way of lovingly making light of heavy things — which she does with genuine kindness like no one else. Whether this was some disguise to check up on me, or a casual dinner, her invitations always promised laughter which I desperately needed. I was thrilled to see her. Her dad had died just before mine.
When I arrived, she was waiting at a table with her friend, Ghislaine, whose short, dark hair framed her spa-fresh, glowing face. Gold ropes hung around the deep V-neck of her blouse and diamonds fell off her earlobes and wrists. She was…
