Page 1 of What She Saw
Prologue
Rafe Colton
Thursday, July 31, 2025, 11:00 a.m.
Red Onion State Prison, Pound, Virginia
In prison, I learned to appreciate the little things. Cracks in a wall. A bug scurrying along the floor. Underlined words in a dog-eared prison library book. Or when a prisoner’s smile turned feral. Cells didn’t offer me the big picture, but they taught me focus.
Front and center in my mind were the lumpy mattress in the prison hospital bed, the IVs running from my arms, and a machine beeping in time to my slow and sloppy heartbeat. The doctors said my cancer was worse. I would be dead in a year or two. Some said I should be relieved—this disease would end three decades in prison. But I liked living. And I wanted to squeeze out all I could of what was left.
A female nurse sat across the room, reading charts. Mousy brown hair was secured in a tight bun. She was younger than me, mid-thirties to early forties. Her skin still had some life in it, but it wasn’t glassy smooth like a teenager’s. A few lines had etched into creases around her eyes, marking a lifetime of disappointments. Half glasses reminded me of a librarian I’d had in middle school. Mrs. Davenport. Alone at night,I’ve dreamed about the nurse. What did she look like in her teen years? Was that hair silken? Were her curves tight and hot? Was her skin soft?
I rubbed my fingers against the coarse prison sheets and tried to remember the feel of a young woman’s smooth skin. Memories were too distant to grab.
Sighing, I curled my fingers into a fist. Time hadn’t been kind to me either. But it isn’t charitable to most of us.
“Darlin’, could you do me a favor?” I asked.
The nurse looked up.
“I sure could use a drink of water, darlin’.” My lips slid into a slight grin.
The nurse’s expression softened. Time hadn’t robbed me of all my charms. When I was younger, I enjoyed many appreciative glances from females. Now I missed the way their eyes glistened, and their lips parted as they watched me move.
She filled a cup with water and carried it to my bedside. I took the plastic, careful to brush my fingers against hers. The V of her scrubs dipped low, as if she wanted me to see the curve of her breasts. Her boxy top didn’t hide her narrow waist and rounded hips. And I bet her calves had a nice shape despite the comfortable black shoes.
She didn’t wear perfume, and her skin carried the scent of a sensible soap. Once I was surrounded by young women who smelled like mountain flowers and sex.
I sipped the water, letting the cool liquid roll down my dry throat. “Thank you, darlin’. I appreciate you.”
Her face remained neutral, but her eyes grew expectant. Her head tilted. She wanted to smile, but she didn’t.
I liked knowing I could charm a woman with a grin. I was old and dying, but still vain.
The door buzzer chimed. The moment broke. The nurse took the cup back and crossed to the security door. She opened it to a man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and sensible shoes. A cop. There’s no missing a law enforcement officer’s demeanor. The good ones arealways tense, anticipating trouble and ready to spring. This guy was a tiger coiled, prepared to pounce.
We’d met twice before. Sergeant Grant McKenna.
He hadn’t shared much of his own past, but he’d questioned me about the crimes that earned me a life sentence. The papers and the cops called me the Mountain Music Festival Killer and dubbed my so-called victims the Festival Four. Not the coolest monikers, but they stuck.
The powers-that-be tried and convicted me of four murders three decades ago. To this day, I still professed my innocence. I was framed. The cops had never found the bodies. And I argued the commonwealth’s case was based on physical evidence planted in my barn.
A prison guard stepped inside the clinic and stationed himself by the door.
I sat straighter, wincing as I adjusted the pillow behind my bony back. The handcuffs that bound my left wrist to the bed dug into my fragile skin.
Grant knew the basic facts about me and had a working knowledge of my case. I didn’t know how deep he’d dived into the finer points, but he knew enough. I was flattered he was there. I hadn’t had many visitors in recent years, though there was a time when the Mountain Music Festival Killer eclipsed Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, and John Wayne Gacy.
According to the cops and press, my rampage spanned not years but a six-hour window. Psychologists assumed I would have killed more women if the cops hadn’t stopped me. My splash in the headlines was intense and brief. No one remembered me now. I wasn’t even a footnote. All that kept me relevant was the missing bodies.
“Sergeant,” I said.
“Mr. Colton.” He extended his hand to me.
I took it, disarmed by this very human gesture. I was amazed the guard allowed it. “How’s retirement?”
“Can’t complain.” Grant withdrew his hand and pulled up a chair.
