7. Kinleigh
SEVEN
KINLEIGH
18 YEARS AGO.
“Nobody likes Garfield anymore.”
“My mother likes Garfield .”
I keep walking with my head held high. This is my favorite lunch box and I don’t care what they say.
I love Garfield .
My tummy rumbles because I’m both hungry and a little nervous. I don’t like the other kids picking on me, but I don’t want to start crying. My dad says if I cry on the first day of school, then I’m the crybaby.
I don’t want to be the crybaby.
The end of the bench is open, so I set my lunch box on top of the table and slide onto the seat. There's rustling from the tables behind me, and a moment later, two loud boys have smashed into the bench around me, their elbows brushing mine. It’s too close, I don’t like it.
I start to collect my things, putting my Capri Sun back into my open lunch box, knowing I can’t eat my lunch here if they refuse to move.
But they start laughing, and their laughter smothers me, making me feel trapped. In a panic, I grab at my sandwich and apple, shoving them into the red box. But one of the boys knocks my hand and my sandwich hits the wet pavement with a heavy thunk.
I blink down at the tuna fish on wheat with lettuce and try as hard as I can not to cry. I do not want to be the crybaby like my dad said.
Then that boy stomps his foot so hard that tuna flies everywhere, and my sandwich is completely gone.
Nothing but boot marks and crust.
My bottom lip trembles as I lift my eyes to the bully. But when I look up, he’s not looking at me. He’s looking away, where another boy is stomping up, his brows pulled together, face all scrunched with anger.
“Let her be,” he calls as he approaches, using his hands to shove the boy in the shoulders once he arrives.
The boy attempts to shove him back, but isn’t strong enough to make the other boy budge.
My two bullies seem to scurry away, all their bravado gone in the presence of this boy.
“Who are you?” I ask him, wondering, building fairy tales in my mind, my heart racing.
He smiles and slides into the bench, sitting next to me. “Colton Beckett.” He outstretches his hand and I shake it, and it’s the first time I think I’ve ever shook hands with anyone.
It makes me giggle a little, and my giggle makes Colton smile.
“You like turkey all the same?” he asks, unrolling a wrinkled grocery sack with both hands.
From the bag he retrieves a sandwich, deli meat and lettuce poking past the crust. I nod and his smile gets bigger and my tummy rumbles again, only this time, there’s a little sparkle to the soreness, like maybe this boy makes me feel… happy? I’ve never had that before, not with a boy at least. My friends make me happy but I’ve never had these tummy jitters.
He rips his sandwich in two and hands me one half. The bigger half.
“Thanks,” I tell him, taking a big bite to quiet my tummy.
We chew our first bites staring at one another, and for some reason, I can’t quit smiling.
“How old are you?” I ask as he slides me his open bag of potato chips to share.
I take one, my mouth puckering with the salty goodness. Dad never buys these.
He sips from his juice box. “I’m just about nine.”
I nod. “I’m just about eight.”
I take another bite of the turkey sandwich, wishing my dad made this instead of tuna fish. This tastes really good.
“I like your sandwich,” I tell him as I struggle to stab my marigold straw into my drink pouch. The pointed end of the straw bends, and I groan in frustration.
Colton reaches over, taking my Capri Sun Pacific Cooler and the straw, and punctures the pouch first go. He passes it back to me and I smile at him before I take a sip.
“Thanks for sharing with me.”
He finishes his half of the turkey sandwich and smiles. “What’s your name?”
“Kinleigh,” I tell him. “Kinleigh Conway.”
His eyes light up. “You’re my neighbor, I think. Does your daddy have cows?”
I nod, excited at the possibility that Colton Beckett could be my neighbor. As an only child, all I’ve ever wanted are siblings or neighbors to play with. “He sure does.” I lick my lips, the Island Cooler not as sweet as this news. “Do you live on Tarpan Way?”
His nod has my belly doing backflips. “Yep. I surely do.”
I take another sip of my juice, and knock my boot into his. “You like climbing trees?”
He smiles, two of his bottom teeth missing, just like mine. “Love it.”
I finish my half of the sandwich, quite possibly the best I’ve ever had, and wonder how I’ll ever go back to tuna fish.
PRESENT.
My eyes follow the dull blade across the toasted wheat, ignoring the white smear it leaves in its wake. Over and over, I drag the knife over the bread, making sure the condiments are spread thin, one at a time, just the way he likes it.
The stench of tuna roils my stomach, and I take a sip of water nearby to temporarily dislodge the knot of disgust in my throat. Adding the chopped onions, celery, and hard-boiled eggs, I mix the bowl of tuna fish salad, forcing myself to focus on what comes after this: sunshine on my face, the fresh air running through my senses, wind curling my hair as I ride my horse through the pasture.
I take a long ride on the property after lunch daily. Something he still allows me to do. I look forward to that forty-five-minute ride every single day. Using a spoon, I drop balls of tuna salad onto the bread and carefully spread it out, layering on the lettuce next. Lastly, I press the remaining slice of toast onto the sandwich, wash my hands with soap and water–careful to dry them completely, and walk through the house toward my father’s office door.
It’s cracked, but no noise leaks into the hall, so he’s likely reading or on his computer. Every once in a while, he’s so engrossed in his work, I can leave the sandwich and slip out with ease.
Using the toe of my boot, I nudge the door open, finding my father in his chair, eyes pinned on me, feet stacked on the desk, a disgusting grin on his lips.
“C’mon in here,” he calls, his voice setting off a burst of nausea inside me.
Slowly, I tread forward, gripping the plate with my dry hands, eager not to repeat the accident from a month ago. I’d washed my hands off after making the sandwich, but they weren’t completely dried and the plate slipped from my grip in the office.
My knuckles bled, and he didn’t let me out of his office as he kept his boot on my back, making me scrub the wood floor, teaching me a lesson.
Carefully, I slide the plate onto his desk and turn, anxious to be free of his eyes, out of his house, away from him.
I’m just about to reach the threshold of the door when I hear the plate drag against the desk, and my father speaks. “We have a new guest downstairs.”
Frozen, I don’t turn, because typically when we have a guest in the basement, the only information I get are orders.
When to feed them. How often to go down and check on them. What to provide them with. That’s pretty much it.
I hate it. But if I refuse, he’ll kill me, and despite the fact I don’t know what I have to live for, I know I’m not ready to die. And they need me. The randoms he brings through here on a pit stop. They may think I’m bad, and I know I’m the last person they see before they know hell. Still, they need me.
“Come have a look,” he calls out, and I know it’s not an offer, but an order.
Sometimes he does this, though I can’t remember the last time he showed me the security feed on his laptop screen. It’s been months, maybe even a year or more. Time is a jumble in this cruel prison.
I take a slow breath, telling myself it will be okay. He’s already chewing which means he’s eating his sandwich. Eating is one thing he usually commits to. I should be safe. Spinning on my heel, I cross the room and take my spot near his left elbow, behind him, the way he enjoys it. Yanking the screen to face me, he taps a blunt fingertip on the grainy, somber image. I follow his finger, because he’ll fly off the handle if I disobey him, but he can’t make me focus my eyes. He doesn’t have control over what I truly take in. And not focusing on the captive allows me to fight back, silently, even if only I know.
I blink at the screen then down at his sandwich, waiting to be dismissed.
This time, it’s like he knows I didn’t look, that I refused to see who is currently being held against their will in our basement.
His fist is tangled in my hair, my scalp burning as he yanks me down, his voice booming.
“Look at the fucking screen, Kinleigh,” he growls, my eyes now struggling to focus as my nose smashes against the computer screen. “Look at who I caught, goddamn it!”
Blinking, the granular screen flickers, and the secondary camera flashes. From this angle, I can see the bed in the basement, and the place where the chains connect to the wall. My heart races, praying to God that whoever is currently off-screen isn’t young. Please, just don’t let it be a child. Or a pregnant woman.
The screen flashes as the security system switches back to the first camera, the one centered on the door.
It’s not a child, or a pregnant woman.
I blink a few times, my heart racing up my throat, ears pounding, palms sweating. Slowly, I inch back from the screen, forcing my brain to focus on the silhouette hunched near the door.
Big and brawny but defeated, too, a man sits with his head tipped against the concrete wall, long legs outstretched in front of him. The camera is cheap, and the feed isn’t much better.
But I instantly know who it is.
Colton Beckett.