Chapter 5: McDonald and Elizabeth

Jason’s coffee sloshed over the rim of the paper cup as Carson’s knee bounced under the McDonald’s table, her fingers drumming a staccato rhythm against the laminate surface. The morning crowd buzzed around them—families with sticky-fingered toddlers, construction workers inhaling Egg McMuffins—but Harrison’s booth in the back corner felt like a quarantine zone.

Harrison and Cindy slid into the seat across from them. He folded his hands on the table. “Cindy did well this morning,” he said, watching Carson’s face with clinical detachment. “Better than your first time alone.”

Carson laughed—she leaned forward, elbows on the sticky table, her smile stretching too wide. “Funny,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The first time I was ever left alone with another person—truly alone, unsupervised—was in a motel room with a woman named Estelle, who was like 90 years old. I spent my time naked between her legs licking her hairy pussy and ass, and she loved it.”

Harrison’s fingers twitched against the tabletop, his expression unreadable. Cindy, beside him, had gone still—her lips parted slightly, her breath shallow.

Carson leaned back, stretching her arms behind her head with a lazy grin. “What?” she said, her voice dripping. “Estelle taught me more in three hours than Mrs. Harrison did in four years.” She flicked a glance at Cindy, whose cheeks had gone pink. “Relax, girl. She is no longer with us. She died with a smile on her face that night. Harrison’s expression didn’t flicker. He unbuttoned his suit jacket with slow precision. “Ok, enough of that. The reason I asked you 3 here is that Mrs. Harrison has something planned,” Harrison said, his voice low enough that the family at the next booth wouldn’t overhear. “I don’t think you’re going to like it; I know I don’t like it.”

Harrison leaned forward. “I started this company years ago,” he said, voice low. “Back when it was just me and a Rolodex of men who knew how to keep their mouths shut.” His thumb traced the rim of his coffee cup, leaving a smudge in the powdered creamer. “Made more money in six months than my father did in his entire life. Then I married Vivian.”

Carson’s fingers tightened around her coffee cup, the Styrofoam crackling under her grip. Vivian Harrison had been the storm that reshaped Harrison’s empire—a fact everyone knew but never said aloud. She’d taken the Rolodex operation and turned it into something sleek, corporate, and untouchable. Vivian didn’t just run the business; she absorbed it into her bloodstream until the two were indistinguishable.

“Vivian has a new project,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “She calls it ‘the Nest.’”

Carson watched Harrison’s fingers tap a slow rhythm against his coffee cup. “The Nest?” she repeated, her voice deliberately flat. “Sounds cozy.”

Harrison’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, it is,” he murmured. “Think of it as ... a boarding school.” His thumb rubbed at a smear of ketchup on the table. “For girls who need extra attention and to learn to obey.”

Carson’s coffee cup froze halfway to her lips—boarding school. Extra attention. The Nest. She’d heard this script before, back when Vivian Harrison first pressed a sheer silk blouse into her 14-year-old hands and called it a uniform and learned to make men happy.

Carson set her coffee down with deliberate precision, watching Harrison’s reflection warp in the black liquid. “How many?” she asked, her voice betraying nothing.

Harrison glanced at Cindy, who was shredding a napkin into neat strips under the table. “Twelve to start,” he said. “Handpicked. Vivian wants them moved to the estate by New Year’s.”

Harrison watched Cindy for a moment before turning back to Carson. “Ten to sixteen years old,” he said. “Young enough to mold, old enough to perform.”

Jason’s coffee cup hit the table with a thud. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath, but Harrison ignored him, leaning closer to Carson instead.

“They’ll be trained,” he said, his voice smooth. “Etiquette, manners, cooking, cleaning, and everything they’ll need to make their future owners happy.” His gaze flicked to Cindy, who was looking down at the table. “Cindy here is already enrolled. And she will soon be sold for her services.” Carson’s coffee cup stopped halfway to her lips. The liquid inside trembled slightly. “Enrolled?” she repeated, her voice dangerously soft.

Carson watched the girl’s hands tremble as she tore another strip. “Yes, enrolled,” Cindy repeated softly, the word curling into the air like a question mark.

Harrison’s smile didn’t waver. He reached into his breast pocket and slid a single sheet of paper across the table—the kind with the embossed letterhead Vivian used for contracts. “Cindy’s mother’s penmanship is lovely, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to go there,” Cindy whispered.

“I know you don’t, Cindy.” Mr. Harrison said. Putting a hand on her bare leg.

Harrison looked over at Carson. “Vivian wants you involved, Carson,” he said, his voice pitched low. “She thinks you’d be perfect for handling a ... practical education.” His gaze flicked to Jason, then back. “Both of you.”

Carson exhaled through her nose. Practical education. She knew exactly what that meant—lessons Vivian had given her years ago to be a good little whore.

“They start next Monday,” he said, his voice smooth. “Vivian expects you both at orientation. Full curriculum—demonstrations included.” His fingers moved up on Cindy’s leg, and she moved her legs apart more.

Carson’s fingers traced the embossed letterhead, where Vivian’s signature looped like a noose. “Twelve girls,” she mused, tilting the paper to catch the light.

Harrison’s fingers twitched around his coffee cup. “I wish there was some way I could stop her,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone at the table.

Jason leaned forward, his forearms pressing into the sticky table. “You’re the CEO,” he said, voice low. “You built this fucking company.”

Mr. Harrison said, “Yes, I know—but she is very...” His fingers flexed around the coffee cup, the Styrofoam denting under his grip. “Dominating.”

Jason’s fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his thigh under the table. “So let me get this straight,” he said, voice deliberately flat. “Your wife is running a child trafficking ring out of your estate, and you’re ... what? The distressed bystander?”

Harrison’s gaze dropped to his wedding ring, twisting it slowly. “You don’t understand, Vivian,” he murmured. “She doesn’t just want the money, which she does a lot. But she is in power. She wants them broken in. Properly.” His thumb flicked toward Cindy, who had gone utterly still. “Like you are.”

Carson’s coffee cup cracked in her grip, black liquid spilling over her fingers. She didn’t flinch. “And if I say no?”

Harrison didn’t smile. “Then Cindy goes in alone,” he said, shrugging one tailored shoulder. “And Vivian will release your dad’s tapes, the ones fucking Cindy, to every board member’s inbox by noon.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, you have exactly,” he tapped his watch twice, “thirty-seven minutes to decide.”

Carson laughed—a sharp, jagged sound that made the family at the next booth turn their heads. “What if we called the police?” she said, tilting her head as she’d just proposed the most reasonable solution in the world.

Harrison didn’t blink. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a second sheet of paper and slid it across the table. Jason snatched it up first, his knuckles whitening as he scanned the document.

Jason’s fingers trembled as they traced the official-looking letterhead. His throat worked silently before he managed to croak out, “Adoption papers?”

Harrison leaned forward. “Signed by Cindy’s biological mother,” he said, tapping the notarized signature. “And legally transferred to Vivian’s custody yesterday.” His smile was thin, surgical. “Which means, legally speaking, Cindy is ours now. Every scream, every tear—all company property.”

“So what?” Carson said her fingers were tightening around the cracked coffee cup until the styrofoam buckled.

Harrison blinked. “Excuse me?”

“So what?” Carson repeated. “All I need to do,” she said, leaning forward until Harrison could see the flecks of gold in her irises, “all I need to do is walk into a police station and say you’ve been molesting me since I was 14 and that you and Vivian made me be a fucking whore.” Her smile sharpened. “You think adoption papers will save you from that?”

“You wouldn’t,” he said, too quietly.

“Why not?” Carson’s voice was light, almost playful, but her fingers curled tighter around the coffee cup until the Styrofoam split completely. She didn’t break eye contact with Harrison. “You think I give a fuck about your adoption papers? Your contracts? Her lips curled at the edges, sharp as a blade. “I’ll torch this whole fucking empire if I have to.”

Harrison’s laugh was soft, almost affectionate, as if Carson had just told a particularly endearing joke. He reached into his breast pocket again—slowly, deliberately—and withdrew a slim phone. His thumb swiped across the screen once before turning it toward her. “You’re right,” he murmured, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “Adoption papers wouldn’t stop you. But this might.”

The screen flickered to life, displaying a grainy but unmistakable scene: Cindy, naked and writhing beneath Jason on the living room couch, her fingers clutching at the cushions as he drove into her with rough, rhythmic thrusts. The timestamp in the corner read 8 hours ago. Carson’s own voice floated from the speaker, slurred with sleep but unmistakable: “Fuck her harder, Jason. She likes it.”

Jason had gone corpse-still, his fingers frozen around the adoption papers.

“Carson,” Jason’s voice scraped out low and rough, “I don’t like it either—” His knee bumped hers under the table, a fleeting pressure. “But if we don’t do what Vivian says, then we and all of us will be in a lot of trouble.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t know about the camera,” Cindy said, and she began to cry.

“I don’t like it either, Carson,” Mr. Harrison muttered. “Vivian has the police chief under her thumb. As I said, I wish there were some way we could stop her. His gaze flicked to Cindy, his hand still on her leg but now under her skirt. “Not directly.”

“Then we don’t stop her directly,” she said, her voice dangerously light. She leaned forward, her elbow knocking against a smear of ketchup. “We stop her sideways.”

“What do you mean by ‘sideways’?”

Carson smiled. “Think about it,” she said, her voice low enough that the family two booths over wouldn’t overhear. “Vivian’s got the cops, the papers, the whole fucking system greased. But she doesn’t own the girls yet. Not until they’re in The Nest.”

“Transport from where?” Carson asked.

“Upstate New York. Vivian’s had them prepped at a finishing school since September. So they have had some training already. They arrive on Monday.”

“Monday,” she repeated, rolling the word around her tongue like a hard candy.

“Wait—hold on,” Jason hissed, leaning forward. “How the fuck do you even get twelve girls in the first place?” His voice cracked on the last word. “Like, do you just—what, order them online? Bulk discount?”

Harrison spoke. “You’d be surprised,” he murmured, “how many parents are willing to sign over a problem child for the right price.”

“Like my mom’s doing,” she whispered, her voice fraying at the edges. “I have no choice.”

“What time on Monday?” Carson whispered.

“Midnight. Vivian wants them delivered under the cover of darkness. Two vans—six girls each. Armed escorts.”

Carson’s fingers tapped the rim of her cracked coffee cup. “And when does Vivian want us?” she asked, her voice smooth as the Formica table between them.

Harrison exhaled through his nose. “Sunday night, she wants you both at the estate by eight. Orientation starts at 12:30 sharp. The dress code is ... nothing.”

“So,” Harrison said, his voice suddenly soft, almost paternal, “Carson, tell your dad you’re leaving with Jason.” He reached and tucked a strand of Cindy’s hair behind her ear. “Because you’re never seeing him again.”

“Do you actually want to stop her?” Jason asked.

Harrison’s lips barely moved when he answered. “Yes, if I can.”

“Wait,” Jason said suddenly, his voice too loud in the sudden silence. “The tapes.” His throat worked once before he managed to choke out the rest. “Do you know where Vivian keeps them all? The ones with ... Carson. Me. The others.”

Harrison lifted his gaze to Jason’s. “Why?” He asked.

Jason’s fingers drummed against the sticky McDonald’s table. “If you can get them all,” he said under his breath, “I know some people who’ll ambush those vans.”

Harrison’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips. “Define ‘some people,’” he murmured.

Jason leaned in close enough that Harrison could smell the stale coffee on his breath. “The kind,” he murmured, “who make problems disappear permanently. “For the right price.”

“And these ... associates of yours,” he said too casually, “would they require payment upfront?”

“Yes, half upfront, the rest when the job is done,” Jason muttered, his voice low enough that no one could hear. “Will Vivian be with the vans?”

Harrison didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watched a glob of ketchup slide slowly down the side of Cindy’s face.

“Yes. She will be in the lead van. She wants to inspect the merchandise personally.”

Harrison leaned in, “There’s a rest stop,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the rim of his coffee cum with slow deliberation. “Mile marker 87. The drivers will pull over there; Vivian insists on it. Says it’s for...” His mouth twisted around the word. “Refreshments, the 4 men will pick a girl and fuck them before heading to the estate.”

Jason leaned forward, elbows pressing into the sticky table, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. “So, Harrison.” The name came out soft, almost tender. “Would you like her to disappear?”

Harrison exhaled through his nose, watching the way Cindy smeared ketchup across her cheek with the back of her hand. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for a napkin, folded it neatly into quarters, and handed it to the kid without looking at her. “Define disappear,” he said, finally meeting Jason’s gaze.

Jason’s lips barely moved when he spoke next. “Like gone forever,” he repeated. “No body, no trial, no loose ends. Just ... gone. Like she never existed.”

Harrison exhaled, slow and controlled, like a man letting go of something heavy. “Yes,” he said. “But not like that. Not just ... gone. She deserves worse.