25. Kinleigh
TWENTY-FIVE
KINLEIGH
Cold water drips into my hair, startling me awake. I jerk up in bed, reactively batting at the hand that rests on my forehead. Opening my eyes, I sit up, heart racing as my vision falls on…
Garrison? Why is he here?
“I’d ask what happened last night but I saw your dad’s knuckles, cleaned vomit from the cellar floor, and your boyfriend won’t talk to me, so I think I’ve figured it out,” he says, dipping a washcloth into a bowl of water, his hands twisting opposite directions, ringing it out.
I bat his hand away when he reaches up, and take the cloth from him.
I nearly snort at his summary. He thinks he’s figured it out, huh? Wow. Good job. Why don’t you quit being my dad’s little bitch and become a detective? He’s only been beating and raping me for a goddamn decade.
Still, I don't speak.
“We’ve got that meeting with operations and transport tonight,” Garrison reminds me, which he never has done before. Neely never reminded me either.
If Garrison wants Colton and I to escape, I won’t ask why. I don’t believe he’s setting us up, either, but at this point, nothing matters. I’m going through with everything I’ve planned; you only get one life.
“I’m not taking all my weapons to the meeting tonight,” he says slowly as he rises, wiping dampness from his hands on his jeans. “I’m leaving a few things in the den, so don’t be playing around in there—they’re loaded.”
Again, I don't know why Garrison is telling me where to find loaded weapons. Typical man thinking he’s saving the day.
I’ve been hiding weapons in the barn for three years. When Forrest gets blackout and obliterated drunk, I take advantage. A few bullets here, a gun or knife there… he wakes so discombobulated from his booze binge that he thinks he lost them.
I never had a reason to tap into my weapon store until now.
If anyone is getting killed tonight, Forrest Conway’s weapons will be used. I overheard him telling Neely once that he registered all of them to his own name, even ones used in “the business.” Hiding in plain sight is what he called it.
Getting shot with his own weapon is what I call it.
Garrison stops in the doorway as I hold the washcloth to my beaten face with one hand, the sheet to my chest with the other. Only now do I see the smears of dried blood on his shirt and pants. He must’ve carried me up here.
Fuck.
I clutch the sheet to my body more tightly, realizing I’m still naked. Garrison saw me naked; he carried me naked. Another piece of humanity leaves me as I shrink inside myself, growing unimaginably smaller.
Our gazes idle, but I refuse to speak. I can’t trust Garrison. Even if he gives me inches here and there, he’s ultimately aligned with my father.
Finally, he closes the door and I scramble to my feet. Pain sears my brain as I stumble into my bathroom, closing and locking the door. My reflection jars me, jolting my senses, the way it typically does after an encounter with my father.
I turn on the water, cupping my hands beneath the sink. Cold spills through my fingers as I splash my face, gasping as the cool water stings my fiery, torn-up skin. For a moment, I let myself believe that tonight, Colton will get away. Not only will he get away from here, but he will get to the holding location, the coordinates will be good this time, and he’ll save them.
Then, he’ll come back for me.
And as I slowly shower and wash my wounds, I let myself believe that today is the last day of misery—the end of this nightmare.
Tomorrow, this will all be over.
The day is a complete blur.
After my shower, I make lunch for Garrison and my father, because I’m told I must. I eat something small, so I’m not shaky later. It’s a risk getting Murphy ready for Colton. On some off chance that my father strolls out to the stable before his meeting later, he’ll wonder why Murphy is saddled and reined. He’ll see I’ve been taking care of her—he may even get Garrison to cop to the fact he found me out here.
The night Dad showed me who he captured, he claimed he shot and killed Colton’s horse. Mostly, I think, to incite a reaction from the guards when he’d given them the “ you failed ” lecture.
But I knew he didn’t kill that horse. Because, after everyone fell asleep, I slipped out of the house into the dark and I ran. Barefoot, the ground so cold my ankles ached, I ran until I couldn’t breathe, until my chest was overwhelmed with scorching fire and my vision blurred from the aching fatigue of it all. I splintered both my palms pushing those stable doors open so forcefully.
But I saw Murphy.
I dropped to my knees in the damp hay, and began weeping for the first time in years.
I don’t know why he let Murphy live, but I’ve been taking care of her since. A few hours ago, I readied her to ride, and moved her from the farthest stall to the one nearest the barn doors, for easy access. While in the barn, I readied some of the guns and ammunition, looping two loaded holsters around the first beam so Colton won’t miss them when he comes in.
Now, around ten past five, I’m growing anxious. I didn’t know I could still get anxious. I thought it was one of the many emotions I’d lost the ability to tap into because of my father. I realize now as I lie on my bed, staring at the clumps of texture in the ceiling, I’m anxious for the first time in years because… I actually care. I smile because it means the tides are changing.
Once he sterilized me, I stopped fighting. I stopped living.
With hope in the air, though, anxiety follows.
Half past five, Garrison enters my room without knocking. He keeps his back pressed to the door as he stares at me. I scramble upright and stare back. His eyes hold a semblance of guilt. I almost feel bad.
Then I remind myself good men don’t kidnap human beings and traffic them.
Now that I think about it, I’m not actually aware how involved Garrison is. But he’s here, in this house, witnessing the atrocities, and he’s not coming back with the sheriff daily, so I think it’s safe to assume that he’s likely involved.
“He’ll be very drunk tonight,” he says before eyeing my bookshelves. “ Sackett’s Land ,” he comments, calling out a title from my shelves. I know because it’s my father’s favorite fucking book. A Western by Louis L’Amour. “ Sackett’s Land is his favorite.”
I want to tell him I know, but then again, he knows that I know . My father ranted about it just a few months ago when Garrison was reading a John Grisham at the breakfast table.
It’s code, and I’m not sure what for. If he knows I’m going to try to free Colton, or if he thinks I’m escaping tonight and he’s genuinely not trying to sabotage me, why would he be saying this? I don’t know, and I choose not to ask.
I don’t trust him.
His eyes catch mine, big and green, with specs of gold floating near his pupils. His beard is unkempt and bushy, the hair color mud, a few silvering strands peeking through. He’s over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and big hands.
Though I know he’s beaten Colton many times, something about Garrison… doesn’t scare me.
“Goodbye, Kinleigh,” he says, closing me into the room. Still, I choose to remain silent.
Tonight, after they leave, I’ll slip into the office and memorize the coordinates from the hiding spot, grab one of the burner phones from my father’s drawer so Colton can actually get to the coordinates, snatch the bolt cutters from beneath the kitchen sink, where I’ve been hiding them since I took them from the barn earlier. I’ll give him the coordinates, cut the chains, and pray.
Pray that he makes it away from the house safely. That the coordinates are good. That the phone has enough battery to lead him there. That they’re alive when he arrives.
That he comes back for me.
I pray a lot, my final prayer being that he makes it to real law enforcement. That they can save the women and children that are on their way here, have already left here… that they can really help.
All because Colton will be free.
This is going to work.
I have to believe it.
“Goddamn it, Kinney,” Colton breathes as I rush down the stairs and crash into his open, waiting arms. “I’m so sorry, I did that, I caused that and I’m so sorry,” he rasps, emotion wavering in his voice.
It’s cold down here and though I love being pressed into his chest, I pull back, needing to speak. When I’m around him, it’s impossible not to speak. Everything rushes out with ease, my thoughts and feelings—though messy and chaotic—come easily when I’m around Colton.
I haven’t had the urge to speak or engage in so many years.
Tears spring from my eyes as the plan rushes to my lips, and I prepare my shaky voice to be hushed and low, since no one is quite sure if the camera in the corner is working or not.
At one point, it was indeed. Forrest recorded and watched, because my father knew I’d not administered the paralytic that day. He knew I touched Colton. That Colton clearly had feelings for me, and me for him.
So he could be watching—or listening—now.
He had to be watching.
It’s why the bolt cutters are stashed in a first aid kit, and my main focus right now is changing the bandages along his wrists.
“No,” I whisper, “it’s okay. We don’t have time for that now–”
“It’s not okay,” he growls, tugging me down to sit on the worn mattress with him. “If I’d have kept my fucking eyes on him–”
Now I cut him off, raising my sore arm to cup my palm to his face. The feel of his new beard makes my skin grow hot. “Your eyes on me were the only good thing about what happened.”
His lips come together, and though hesitancy pulls his brows together, he doesn’t comment on it again.
“I want you out of here,” he breathes.
“Tonight,” I start, peering over my shoulder at the camera.
The light is on but again, we’ve spoken freely in front of it before to no punishment, while other times, Forrest seems attune to the feed. I won’t roll the dice tonight, though; I let my back block the view and keep my voice incredibly low.
I reach into the worn pocket on my nightgown and pull out a Sharpie. Slowly, like I’m attempting to move without actually moving, I take Colton by the wrist, and nudge his sleeve up.
As quickly as I can, I write the coordinates on the inside of his wrist, and pop open the first aid kit, quickly covering the numbers from even his sight. I tug his shirt down over the white gauze.
“The container might be buried,” I say slowly, “I’m not sure.” He tugs at his sleeve, eyeing the numbers before the fabric covers them once more. “But this is where they are being held.”
Then I reach into a box of Band-Aids, finding the keys I stashed there. The key for the thing I never thought of. I’d been so fixated on the details of getting Colton free, I forgot a crucial detail about freeing the victims.
The container would likely be locked, and that hadn’t occurred to me.
Except, when I slipped into the office to check the coordinates, I also saw the book.
Sackett’s Land.
Inside, a hollow book with a key ring, two different keys on them. I took them, and unless Garrison is planning an elaborate hoax with decoy keys and some cruel twist, these must be the keys to the container. And maybe to the cuffs? I don’t know.
With the keys out of the Band-Aid box, I slip them into the cuffs, trying them out. They don’t work so I pocket them into my nightgown.
His lips curl at the end. “What else is in that first aid kit?”
He’s joking, but I return his smile when I reach in and produce the last item. “Bolt cutters are the last thing.” I reach past him, shoving the cutters beneath the pillow on the small bed. “For the chains. I think the key to your cuffs may be on him, so this is the best I can do.”
His dark eyes come to mine, questioning. “Then what are those keys to?”
Quietly, I tell him I think they’re for the shipping container, and potentially handcuffs that the women could be wearing. Hell, they may even be chained up in there, since we know Forrest has an affinity for medieval prison systems.
“You said it could be buried?” he asks, then a thought hits him and his eyes go wide. “Wait, the guards that sometimes pass by the window,” he says, tipping his head back to the small rectangle near the ceiling. “Are they out there?”
I nod and take a breath, realizing that what I’m about to say carries a heavy implication, a subtext that changes who we are now to who we are after this. “There are two loaded guns holstered, waiting for you at the stable. Murphy is saddled and ready.” Then, I tell him the part that feels the worst to me. “If you get to the coordinates, and the container is buried and not just hidden, you won’t be able to free them tonight. You’ll have to ride back out there as soon as you can, with help.”
He nods. “Okay. I can do that.”
A quiet beat passes, and Colton looks at my hands, where I’m kneading them nervously in front of me. Slowly his gaze rises. “What are you thinking, Kinney?”
I blurt out the truth. “Make love to me.”
I glance back at the camera then close the first aid kit, lowering it to the ground. Our eyes hold. My breathing intensifies, and so does his. My body is sore and hurting, and even though he watched my father destroy me just last night, I know realistically that I may not see Colton after tonight, ever again.
“Please,” I beg, that single word so heavy, so bloated with love and desperation, panic and fear.
He nods, lying back on the bed. He knows that he can’t take me, he can’t get on top of me and fuck my brains out the way normal twenty-something lovers do. He’s chained and I’m a rape victim, making carefree sex a little… complicated with us.
But complicated hasn’t stopped us this far.
I manage to get his jeans down on his hips, and realize now that Garrison must’ve laundered his things and allowed him to redress in them after the shower earlier.
Is Garrison on our side?
I reach into Colton’s pants, putting my uncle out of my head.
If this is the last time I get to be with him… “Colton,” I say aloud, because the urge to speak is overwhelming, but I don’t know what to say.
“Kinney,” he breathes out, raising a cuffed hand to my face as I pull my panties aside.
I wore my nightgown down here, not thinking I’d need it but more so playing the part in the event Dad and Garrison came back. It had to appear that I was going to bed.
He twists a long strand of hair around his finger, tugging it as I position him at my entrance. “I got hard the moment you came down,” he says of his already meaty erection.
Slowly, I ride him, clutching the flannel shirt he’s wearing as the straps of my nightgown slip down my shoulders, the entire dress melting to pool at my waist. Beneath his flannel, the necklace bearing the promise ring is exposed, and emotions devour me.
This is my soulmate in the cellar, beneath me, chained to this wall. This man has been wearing this ring for ten years, and we’ve been in love for so much longer.
Tonight’s plan has to work.
Colton wastes no time filling his hands with my bare breasts, moaning that they’re the perfect size, a perfect handful, a perfect mouthful. Everything about me, according to Colton at this moment, is perfect.
My pussy clenching around his erection.
The pace which I ride him.
The way my eyes hold his.
My blonde hair curtaining my face and shoulders.
The hard tips of my breasts.
The pebbling of my flesh beneath his touch.
“You’re perfect, Kinney,” he growls from beneath, his hands now on my hips, guiding me as I ride.
Sweat glistens on his forehead, his lips curved in a lazy, sated smile as I fuck him. I memorize the sight, praying to God it isn’t the last time, while also knowing God doesn’t always play nice with me. He may not be listening.
“Kinney, I’m trying to last here, but goddamn,” he mutters, reaching his massive arms up to sift his fingers through my hair.
His muscle torques under the weight of the cuffs and chains, but he strokes my hair as I start coming, shuddering and shaking all around him.
“ Kinney ,” he croons, and his affectionate tone causes me to melt against him.
I crush my chest against him, and bring my mouth to his right as his cock throbs.
With one hand pressed into my tailbone, the other at my neck, Colton holds me tightly to his body as his hips thrust off the mattress beneath me, impaling me with his cock as he erupts. His breathy moans and blissful sighs at my ear are so private and personal, hearing them feels like sharing deep secrets.
When I lift up, both of us share the same expression, sated but scared.
Neither of us acknowledge this could be the last time as I climb off of him, righting my panties as he tucks his cock away. Our lips brush together in a soft kiss as I tug my nightgown back on and gather the first aid kit from the floor.
“They’ll be back at eleven, and once they’re home, go.”
His brow pulls together as he steps toward me, and I take a step backward, toward the cellar stairs. “Why can’t I go now, if they’re gone?”
I shake my head. “He might come back still and check on you. Especially if the cameras work, I don’t know. Plus, the guards will be more relaxed once they know he’s home.”
He nods, thinking through the last details. “And those guards, if they catch me leaving the house, what will I do? If the guns are in the barn…” He thinks on this, curling his fist and looking at it. “I could knock them out, but if they holler, it could wake your father.”
This is part of the plan I hadn’t considered, and the fact that we’re just hours away from enacting this big plan and there are still loose ends? I press my hand to my lower belly and let out a long, worried sigh. But Colton snaps, wiggling his fingers toward me.
“The paralytic. Do you have more?” His eyes dance with ideas, and it excites me.
“It’s in the office safe.”
“Can you get it?”
I nod.
“Bring some back down. If I get in a bind, I’ll use the paralytic.”
I nod again. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t thought of that.”
Seeing my self-hatred blooming, Colton comes as close to me as his chains allow. I’m right at the stairs, leaving an unreachable foot between us. “You planned the entire escape. You’ll be the reason those women and children are free. You, not me.”
More silence.
“I love you,” I whisper so the camera can’t hear if it does work. If it works, Forrest has seen me down here and I don’t care.
“I love you too.” He steps back toward the bed, as if he too realizes we must fall back into our roles for another few hours.
I turn and head up the stairs but before I pull open the door, Colton’s soft voice flanks my back. “I’ll be back for you.”
I move through the house, replaying those words over and over. I wrap the syringes of paralytic in a sock and from the top of the stairs, toss it onto his bed. When his cuffed hand comes into view, taking the sock, I close the door.
I head to bed, and close my eyes, “I’ll be back for you” looping in my thoughts as I clutch my pillow and pray that this works.