8. Colton
EIGHT
COLTON
My head is incredibly sore. Nothing causes a headache like a whole-body drought, and I’m so goddamn dehydrated and hungry my brain throbs. Feels like it’s about to damn near shrivel up.
There's a drain in the floor, one whose grate I will lift at some point, looking for water. I know I will.
The crazy thing is, amidst the aching head and sore bones, I know exactly where I am.
I know for a fact that I am in the Conway home, shoved into the cellar.
The cellar, the size of a single-car garage, spans about twenty feet wide and fifteen feet long. The walls, made of worn limestone, darkened by wear and age, provide no barrier to the cold or heat. When snow falls, the space chills like an icebox, and when the sun is cruel and unforgiving, so is the cellar. The stairs are the farthest point from the bed, which is tucked into the far-right corner, bolted to the wall.
Hot and cold, the temperature keeps me uncomfortable all day, and the smell is even worse. Dirt coats the stone floor and the scent of filth hangs heavy in the air. The darkness, the lack of airflow, the discomfort, the way the chains drag around behind me no matter what—this cellar is a bad dream come to life.
And it's my temporary home.
Kinleigh and I came down here as kids a few times, looking for places to be scared. Every moment with her is cataloged in my mind with great detail, including this old cellar.
Raising my arm, searing heat pierces my shoulder from the burdensome weight of the chains. The reminder of my prisoner status radiates down my spine as I scratch at the back of my head. There’s a knot there, tender, but less so than it was yesterday. I’ve been trying to work out how I got here. For two days and one night I’ve sat down here, wondering what Carsyn and Nash must think, and when they called the police.
I keep replaying it in my mind. I had a small window of time and I hadn’t used more than ten minutes before the world went dark.
I trace the cut in my eyebrow, dried blood flaking off as I run my finger over the painful groove. I was drugged then hit, or maybe hit and drugged at once. I can’t remember.
I can’t remember much.
Just those files. So many women and young girls, dollar amounts next to them . The world spins a little each time I force myself to revisit my discovery, make myself come to terms with the fact that Forrest Conway is selling women and children into sexual servitude, and that same man likely owns every single thing I believed belonged to my father.
And from what I saw, I’m not wrong.
My dad got into bed with a bad, bad man. I stack one boot on the other, studying them as I think about the man who raised me. Did he know what Forrest was up to?
Was he in on it?
I shake my head, despite the fact that I feel nauseous when I do, because even with the gambling and later the drinking, I still don’t believe my dad would be so callous, cold and cruel. I don’t want to believe it.
Based on my natural sleep cycle, I’m guessing it’s nearing seven in the morning about now. I’ve been awake for three hours, maybe more. A tiny window is carved into the small wall that the bed is against, offering a glimpse of humanity through the occasional soft flood of light.
I stroke a hand through my hair, my arm growing fatigued now on day two, the weight of the metal cuff and solid chain growing heavy. Without food or water, I’m already feeling off. Nearly weak, which is something I’d rather die than admit but, here I am, chained and alone in my childhood neighbor’s basement.
After I discovered he trades in human flesh, I’m scared. There can’t be a darker soul than one who steals a person away from their family and lives only to sell them off to monsters. Steals and sells women to be raped and enslaved, for young girls to be–I can’t bring myself to say it. I refuse.
He’s going to kill me.
That’s gotta be what the beginning of this all is. He knows I’m onto him, he knows what I saw, and the USB… goddamn it. I was foolish to think I could waltz in here and do this alone. Nash was right, this was a knee-jerk idea.
I cup my head in my hands and drag my legs up, resting my elbows on my knees. From the corner of my eye, I see the makeshift toilet in the corner, near the stairs, taunting me, reminding me that I'm no longer free. That I piss in a bucket with chains on my ankles, no better than a prisoner who has committed egregious crimes.
Focus, Colton. You aren’t going to get out of here and help save any of those poor fucking women and girls if you freak the fuck out.
In through my nose and out through my mouth, I take a handful of deep breaths.
Sometimes, when I’m out in the pasture herding cattle with Nash, I have panic attacks. They come on randomly, because I’m tracking them. They aren’t tied to a temperature outside, how hydrated I am, what I’m wearing, or what I had for lunch. They’re random, and they destroy me. I truly think I’m going to die.
My pulse is fucking hammering in my throat, shooting off a nausea response in my belly. My head feels heavy but also wildly dizzy at the same time, and suddenly, my body feels incredibly weak. My muscles are hot and achy, my lips tingle with foreboding. Lie down or be sick. And I nearly crash onto my side as I make my choice, my chains making the fall much easier with their weight.
That’s how it goes normally, when Nash is there, holding my hat if I’m puking, telling me I’m a baby for getting sick.
Only now, Nash isn’t here. He’s at my father’s house with Carsyn.
Carsyn. How much can one brother disappoint his sister?
First, I abandoned her. Then I take off to get her answers and get her in a worse off place. With me dead, and Nash without answers either, they’ll both be forced to leave. I hope Nash takes care of her for me.
I wonder where she went. Kinleigh, the love of my life. Looks like she left right after me. Carsyn said there was no current trace of her in sight, and the house looks like life stopped around that year I left. She must’ve taken off, too, and never come back.
Her father is still alive. Maybe if I kill him she’ll come back.
Jesus Christ that was dark. I don’t know what caused me to think such a wild thing. My stomach rumbles, and I place my hand over my flannel shirt, glad as hell I wore my vest and gloves. Forrest let me keep them, so I could be worse off. It’s cold as a witch’s tit down here.
I guess Forrest let me keep them. I really don’t know who put me down here, only what I do know is Forrest is a fucking monster and I’m in his basement. There’s an obvious equation in there somewhere, and I see that.
I wonder where Kinleigh went. My mind calms some; the frayed, panicked edges of my mind soothes at the memory of Kinleigh— her sweet smile, and soft, breezy tone. She was always so fucking cute. So goddamn gorgeous, too. She had a way of making me laugh, setting off this flurry of nerves and excitement in my gut, making me feel all hot and achy. But also, making me feel like a man. Understanding what getting hard was really all about, deeper than carnal need. Even though I hadn’t yet any idea of what it would be like, every waking moment, I swear to God, I dreamed of being inside of her. How we would get there, and where we’d go after. I just knew she would be soft and warm, and I needed inside of her that way.
I made it to home base with her just once, and goddamn if I don’t think of it every time I touch myself. It’s shameless I hold on to that memory so tightly, considering there’s been so many since. I don’t hold count, but there’s been plenty.
When it’s all said and done, I only ever think about Kinleigh Conway. How she styles her hair now. If her smile has changed or if she still wears the same perfume. Does she work or… is she a mama?
I don’t know.
I always wonder. Silently. Privately. Desperately. I wonder.
My neck is aching, temples pounding, and I’m growing sleepy in my idly desperate restlessness. In the last few hours sleepiness has come and gone. A sign I need water. And soon, food. But definitely water.
Despite the fact I don’t hear footsteps, the door opens at the top of the basement stairs, and light spills down, just an inch of it dripping onto my boots.
The light jolts me up, and I stiffen uncomfortably against the craggy wall.
“I need water, asshole,” I try to shout up the stairs.
My voice is threadbare, far quieter than I expected it to be. The fatigue and stress of the last two days has worn it down.
There’s a chuckle, sharp and prickly, numbing the surface of my skin, causing me to leverage my cuffed wrists together at the wall to get to my feet. I have enough chain length to cross the room to the small toilet.
I can reach the bottom of the stairs.
But then what?
Metal binds me at my ankles and wrists, the shackles thick and strong but so rusted with age they could be medieval. And I don’t have either of my guns. As soon as I woke in this shithole, I reached for the gun at my back and the one in my boot. Both were gone.
My knife, too.
I don’t make a point to carry three weapons on my person on a normal basis, but I knew Forrest Conway wasn’t normal. I just had no idea how fucked up he really was.
Shiny red boots traipse after the laughter, Forrest Conway himself finally coming into sight.
“If it isn’t Colton Beckett all grown up.” He beams an unnatural smile, a reminder he’s clearly an unnatural man.
His lips twitch, as if he’s a theater actor holding an overacted emotion for the sake of the stage. Something about him– everything about him–is eerie and sickening. Down to the way his white hair looks colored, like maybe the real color is a dying blond turned dingy gray-yellow, and he’s coloring it to preserve some iota of youth. But lines of age and unknown horrors cross his forehead, and crow’s feet pinch at the corners of his eyes. From behind him, hidden in the back of his pants, he produces a sealed bottle of water and tosses it to me. I reach out, eager and nearly panting, catching it easily, tearing off the lid and swallowing it down in three painful gulps.
“Should have drank it slower.” Forrest laughs as I struggle to keep the large gulps down.
My throat stings, and the cool water seared the dry tissue as I swallowed, making my eyes watery now.
He produces another. “I heard about your dad,” he says flatly, shaking the bottle out in front of him like a piece of bacon to a hungry dog.
I’ll fucking die of thirst before I jump for that.
I spit at his feet, connecting.
He looks down, lifting the Lucchese boot to analyze the molecule of saliva that connected. He swipes it with his handkerchief after tugging it from his shirt pocket. “Grief can make people crazy. I’ll let that one go.” He stuffs the handkerchief away and peers around the cellar, as if he has no idea what it looks like.
“Enough with the fucking theatrics,” I grind out, nostrils flaring, heart pumping. “You’re going to kill me or let me go. So, either way, do it.” I search his person but beneath his suede overcoat, I can’t see a piece. “Shoot me or tell me what my story is and set me the fuck free.” I feel cheap giving him an offer– a way for me to be free that would require me to protect him.
But I’d do it to get out of here.
I’d do it for Carsyn.
It’s slow, but he eventually smiles something so wide it’s sickening. “I think you’re confused,” he grins, stepping closer, the smell of whiskey and aftershave making my balls crawl into my throat. “I tell you how this is gonna go, it ain’t the other way around.”
I swallow, my throat already sandy again. I’m more dehydrated than I thought.
“Tell me then,” I breathe, stepping toward him on legs I force strength into. “What’s my fate, Forrest?”
He smiles, but his eyes don’t budge. “Well, aren’t you a pushy thing,” he says. Contained annoyance flares his nostrils, makes him rock his body weight forward on his boots as he eyes me. I can’t stop pushing, though.
“Tell me.”
He hands me the extra bottle of water, and ushers me to the small bed. I don’t move.
“I’m not sitting while you stand,” I tell him, because being held captive is one goddamn thing, but virtually submitting to him because I’m the one in cuffs? No fuckin’ way.
His phony smile crashes against the cement cellar ground, his upper lip rearing like a rabid animal. “You do what I say, goddamn it!”
Quicker than I expected for a man his age, he pulls his gun from his back and butts my temple, sending me back a few discombobulated paces. I grip my head, my insides storming. I want to fucking punch this piece of shit. But he’ll just kill me. And that does nothing for those poor women, that puts Carsyn worse off… so, I sit on the bed.
The chains feel so heavy now. More than before. And even after I’m sitting, it still feels like I’m bearing the weight of them, though they rest on the cot next to me.
“I heard about your dad,” he repeats, this time his eyes boring into mine, daring me to make a move, challenging me to comment.
He’s established he has the upper hand by pulling his gun, and he knows now all I’ll do is retreat.
“And I reckon that’s why you’re back,” he adds, looking to me for confirmation.
His eyebrows stay raised, and I study his aged, sun-etched face. I think about all the times Kinleigh had to look at him. Had to stare into these cold, soulless eyes and plead her case.
About curfew.
Movies.
Dates.
Everything. He fought and argued with her about everything. And I never understood it. I truly didn’t. Because Kinleigh was a good girl. Through and through.
She got good grades. Volunteered. Loved animals. Did nice things when no one was looking. So sweet and loving. A nurturer at heart.
And he tore her down nearly every chance he could.
But only ever in private.
Never even around me.
“Did you or did you not come back to Buffalo Trails because your daddy died?” Forrest asks, his pointed tone cueing me to focus.
I put Kinleigh out of my mind, though as fatigue begins to edge in, it’s harder to fight it.
I nod. “I did.”
He nods, but still holds my eyes, in what I assume is some sort of power thing. Fucking prick.
The moment I’m out of these shackles, you’re fucking dead , I think to myself as Forrest’s eyes search mine.
I don’t know what he’s looking for. I left my family and never came back. I’m… nearly as bad as he is.
“You never visited,” he says, almost matter-of-fact, but when one eyebrow raises only slightly, I know he’s asking.
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t.”
He lets out a low, shameful whistle, shaking his head. “That’s an awful way to treat your family. Runnin’ out on them like that.”
Our eyes hold, my stomach clenching, fire tearing through my veins. I don’t let my nostrils flare, and I control my pitch. “I was lost. And at the time, leaving was the answer.”
He considers me a moment, his white hair picking up glints of sunlight dripping in through the tiny push window near the ceiling. If you didn’t know him, he almost looks kind, with white hair and a wide smile.
“And now?” He grins, basking in what he smells is clearly internal turmoil. “Did you pick the wrong answer?” Forrest leans in, his breath sour. “Are you a fuckup?” Then he laughs, pressing a hand to his stomach, as if he’s a goddamn comedian.
I wait for his focus to return, and when it does, I keep my response simple. “I might be.”
That’s the truth. I ran off so quickly, but it seems like Kinleigh left the following year, after she graduated. If I would have stayed, who knows. Maybe I would have gotten through it like any normal teen after losing their first love, and I would’ve met someone and stayed at the ranch.
Dad might even still be around if I’d have been there to help with the workload.
I vividly remember the stinging, numbing, biting, all-consuming pain of losing her. I knew, even as a seventeen-year-old kid, what it meant to feel like life has lost meaning. At the time, running was the only way I knew how to put some ease on that ache.
“Why did you come here?” he asks, darkness lining his voice, his forceful eye contact now much more complex.
He’s studying me, searching me, waiting for me to make a mistake for him to catch so he has a viable reason to kill me.
“To see why you seem to own everything that belongs to my father.” I swallow, my dry, sore throat aching. He’d never know it from how steady I hold my tone. “And I don’t refer to him as my daddy.”
Forrest smirks. “Your daddy owned nothing before he died, and after death, has nothing to give. I do not see what needs illuminating. Facts are facts.”
I throttle my immediate anger. “How do you get to my father not owning anything as a fact? Because last I checked, Beckett Farms belonged to Levi Beckett, and before that, Archer Beckett. Same as the trucks, the animals, all of it.”
Forrest smiles again, but this time, it’s different.
It’s real. Bursting with honesty and pleasure.
And it’s terrifying.
“Your daddy ,” he starts, enunciating the word, attempting to prove his dick is bigger than mine, “was a degenerate gambler addicted to alcohol and hookers.” He leans in, getting too close. “I was the friend that supported his life without judgment, until he could no longer make good on his word.”
I snort. How mighty fucking benevolent of him.
“You are a life-stealing bookie piece of shit,” I spit, not in defense of my father but in offense of Forrest fucking Conway. “And I know my father had problems. But millions of dollars in problems?” I shake my head. “I know what my father’s property and cattle are worth. And I don’t think some blackjack and whiskey can get that pricey.”
The way Forrest’s eyes harden for a moment, how his brows pull together and his mouth splits open silently– I know then he isn’t exaggerating.
“He racked up far more than what he could ever repay,” Forrest says, shaking his head.
“You’re my father’s bad heart?” I ask, with the assumption that, while my father did go cold turkey, it wasn’t what killed him.
But Forrest balks, leaning back, his hand floating subconsciously to his backside, where he wears a piece.
“It’s probably good you’ve been in Texas, ranching cattle.”
My pulse picks up and I swallow again, remembering then I have the second bottle of water. I twist it open and drink it in a few gulps. I’m not going to ask him how or why he knows that. I’m not playing into his fucking sick ego. I stare at him, not taking the bait.
He scowls. “If I were going to kill your stupid daddy, would I really do it like this? You’re here because you learned enough to be suspicious of me. If you could, a cop could. So no, I am not the bad heart your daddy died from. He died from the whiskey and the blow and the stress of debt. His pathetic heart couldn’t handle it.”
I don’t know why we’re talking about this. My father was always distant growing up, something Forrest must realize because loving families don’t just easily go with no contact for ten years if things are fucking peachy.
He moves on. “Now that you know why I own everything your precious daddy used to own, are you satisfied with your quest?”
I think this is the moment. The time where I say yes and promise to be a good boy, move my sister out of her home, watch her lose the animals she’s taken care of, the estate she’s kept, watch her entire life go down the drain because my father was a selfish fuckup and I was, too.
But to pretend now I haven’t seen the things I have. It would be another failure to those taken, to those being trafficked. When you see this kind of shit on Dateline , you always think about all the people they must’ve come into contact with, and how every single one of those people failed those victims.
I won’t fail these poor women and children, wherever they are. I don’t even know if it’s too late or not. All I know is, things have snowballed far beyond my father’s estate.
If I get out of here alive, I can take care of Carsyn. And I will. And we’ll save all of the women victimized by Forrest Conway.
“See now, I don’t like how much time it’s taking you to answer the question.” He shakes his head, pinching the top of his hat, lifting it a moment before replacing it.
Suppose it’s meant to make me nervous. It doesn't, though.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I tell him, “because I think we both know I’m not leaving here a quiet man.”
He nods, pursing his lips, eyes wandering lazily away from me. “Figured as much.”
He rises, quickly whipping me with his pistol, straight along my cheekbone.
When the world stops jerking around in front of me, I sit up and look at him, blinking through the blood that spiderwebs through the white of my eye.
“You stay down here and think real hard about your morals. Because if you get on board with me now, you can be a rich man. You could save your daddy’s legacy, his property, whatever.” He shrugs. “I could use a young, strong fella.”
I snort. “Are you honestly propositioning me?”
My entire face throbs so painfully that I manage to forget about the stinging hunger in my belly. I know I can make it another full day without food but if I do, I’ll start to get dizzy. I’m too big to manage without.
“I’m sayin’ there’re two sides to every story, and opportunity in places you may never have thought to look.” He shrugs. “Welp, till then, I’ll be seein’ ya.” He turns, the swish of his suede jacket dizzying me in my state.
“I need food,” I call at his back, not caring that he’s leaving me, but I think if he really wanted me dead, he’d have done it by now. There may be a reason why I’m alive. “Don’t let me starve to death.”
He stops a few steps up the stairway, cocking his head back a pinch to glower at me. “You’ll eat when I say you’ll eat.”
And then I guess to feel mighty, he comes back down the stairs and pulls his gun on me.
“Without that gun, you don’t stand a chance, even if you’ve starved me.” I spit in his face. “You and I both know it.”
He wipes the spit with the same handkerchief as before. “But I do have the gun.”
Then it’s black again.