The Analyst
Copyright© 2025 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 17: The Questions We Wear
“What’s wrong?” Becca asked, her hazel eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that seemed to see straight through me.
We had just finished dinner, and I had Becca cuffed for the evening. I gently tugged on the connecting chain, guiding her to the sofa where she settled in.
“The FBI got back to Lisa about that report,” I said, my voice hesitant.
“And?” Becca’s brow furrowed slightly.
“They liked it,” I began, “but they said it was missing the psychological aspects.”
Becca’s expression grew puzzled. “What does that mean?”
“Well,” I said, trying to find the right words, “considering the unique circumstances, they want to speak with you about your experience.”
Becca took a moment, then asked calmly, “Do I have to do it?
“It’s complicated,” I replied. “There might be implications with my work if you don’t. But no, you don’t have to.”
“When is the meeting?” she asked.
“We’d fly to Philly tomorrow afternoon, meet with them Friday morning, and then fly back in the afternoon,” I explained.
“Philadelphia?” Becca’s voice held curiosity.
“Yeah,” I confirmed.
She nodded, her calm demeanor unaverred. “Okay,” she responded. “I’ll do it.”
I then spent the rest of the evening going over all the details with her. To my surprise, she handled everything with remarkable composure.
The next morning followed its usual rhythm. Becca was already up and moving about the apartment, her restraints in place. I didn’t have to go to work, so she stayed in them.
“I can help you with your portfolio,” I offered. “I’ll make us breakfast, and then we can go over it.”
“I wrapped it up yesterday,” she said, “but reviewing it might be a good idea.”
I prepared breakfast, and we settled on the sofa with her portfolio spread out between us. As we went through her work, I noticed she was distracted.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked, thinking it might be about the meeting.
“That photography studio is in Philadelphia,” she said.
“The one that you called?” I asked for clarification.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
I hesitated, then asked, “Is that why you were okay yesterday with going?” I paused, “Did you want to—”
She nodded and then embarrassingly whispered, “Yeah.”
“Okay, Okay,” I replied, a little surprised. “Do you want to call and check their availability?”
She glanced up and nodded. “I will. I’ll call them in a little while—they open at nine.”
We continued reviewing Becca’s portfolio, which didn’t take long, given how much time she’d invested in it earlier in the week. She had done an impressive job.
A little after nine, Becca picked up her phone and hobbled into the bedroom. I overheard snippets of her conversation and heard her schedule for Friday afternoon. When she returned to the sofa, I asked, Friday afternoon?”
“Yeah,” she confirmed, settling back down.
She explained the details, some of which she had mentioned after her last conversation with the photographer: typically, he pays the models and retains the rights to the images, while the models can use the photos for their own promotion. This arrangement usually works well for everyone involved.
But Becca was uneasy about having her photos circulated. She was worried about potential backlash within the art community, especially given what had happened with Margaret. She thought this would be a deal breaker. However, the photographer suggested that she wear a mask during the shoot to maintain her anonymity while still allowing the use of the images.
“Are you okay with this?” I asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” she replied, though her voice held a note of hesitation.
“Why do you want to do it?” I asked softly.
Becca gave me a small, thoughtful smile, tugging gently at her cuffs. “I just want to see what it’s like. The jewelry is nice,” she said, her gaze lingering on the restraints, “but I’m curious about experiencing the other aspects of it.”
“Did you talk about what the shoot would involve?” I asked.
“We discussed some options,” she replied, “but he said we could finalize things tomorrow afternoon. We’ll explore what I’m comfortable with and go from there.”
She explained that the photographer’s wife would be present at the shoot, handling the restraints while he focused on the photos. He also suggested that Becca bring a friend she’s comfortable with to ensure everyone involved felt at ease.
I nodded as she spoke, sensing her awareness of my apprehension about the situation. Despite this, she knew I wouldn’t refuse her request.
The rest of the day was quiet. I worked on a report that was due while Becca debated minor changes to her portfolio. In between, we reviewed some recently posted photos on the photographer’s website as Becca explored choices for Friday’s shoot.
The next day was similarly calm. I went to work in the morning but was home by midday. We packed, ensured our cat would be well cared for, and headed to the airport. The drive felt different this time. Becca sat beside me, her hands cuffed behind her, a stark contrast to the high-security restraints she had worn the last time we made this drive.
Thinking about it more, I realized that’s how she now rode in the car. Her hands were often behind her unless they were secured to her waist in front. Looking at her, she was perfectly comfortable.
Upon arriving at the airport, I removed Becca’s handcuffs. The procedure was simple. I’d unlatch her seat belt, open her door, and she’d step out. I’d then gently take them off. Whenever possible, she would keep them in her purse or her coat pocket. But today, I stowed them in the glove box.
Her disappointment was evident as she realized we were going on this trip without them. She understood the problems of airport security and the uncertainty of checking them in. But the prospect of different restraints for our upcoming activities seemed to ease her frustration.
The flight to Philadelphia was smooth and on time. Becca and I sat together, chatting quietly about several topics, including “jewelry.” We took a shuttle to our hotel and checked in without any issues. The hotel was nice—nothing extravagant, but comfortable enough. Given the reasonable rates, we decided to extend our stay for an additional night at the same hotel. We also rescheduled our return flight to Saturday morning while we were at the airport.
Once we unpacked, we set out to find a place to eat. The weather had turned colder, and Becca wore her heavy coat with wool cuffs, not the metal ones she preferred. We stumbled upon a cozy restaurant that was on the pricier side. Still, since the FBI was covering our meal costs, we treated ourselves to a special dinner, something we might reserve for a special occasion.
With the chilly weather in mind, we returned to our hotel room after dinner. As we were getting ready for bed, Becca surprised me when she emerged from the bathroom. Unbeknownst to me, she had packed her leather teddy, stockings, silk robe, and the ‘So Kate’ heels, which made for an unexpected but enjoyable evening.
The next morning followed its usual routine, except Becca went without her usual restraints. I had used the belt from her robe to tie her wrists together the night before but released her when we went to bed. While it worked well as a makeshift blindfold, it wasn’t a substitute for handcuffs.
Our meeting was scheduled for nine. I was in the middle of getting dressed when Becca emerged from the bathroom, surprising me once again. She looked stunning in the suit she had worn for the transport, paired with her sheer pantyhose that perfectly complemented her skin tone. She also had on more makeup than usual. She reached for the Louboutin stilettos, which had partially slid under the bed, and slipped them on.
“Too much?” she asked with a playful smile.
“Did you bring your usual four-inch heels?” I replied.
“I brought one of the patent black ones,” she said, pulling it from the carry-on and holding it up.
“Maybe,” I said, considering her choice. She removed one of the ‘So Kate’ heels to put on one of her grandmother’s, then stood sideways to show me how they looked from different angles.
Despite the only inch difference between them, the ‘So Kate’ heel seemed to tower over Becca’s vintage stiletto. “Do you want the truth?” I asked.
“The CFMs?” she replied, with a hint of playful anticipation.
“Yeah. They just work better with that suit,” I said. “Your grandmother’s heels are beautiful, but they don’t quite match the look.”
Becca nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I see that.”
“Okay, five-inch heels it is.” She slipped back into the Louboutin stiletto with a satisfied nod. Then, noticing me staring, she added with a slight blush, “I’m afraid I won’t have time later, so I put on my makeup for the shoot.”
“That’s fine. I like it.” I said.
Becca smiled and, rolling her eyes, remarked, “My grandmother wouldn’t have.” As I helped her into her coat, the room phone rang. I answered it and said we’d be downstairs in a few minutes.
“Who was that?” Becca asked, her curiosity rose.
“The hotel’s reception desk,” I said, surprised. “There’s an FBI agent downstairs to take us to the meeting.”
“Really?!” Becca responded, equally amazed.
“Yeah,” I said.
We headed downstairs to find Agent Reinhardt waiting for us in the lobby. She greeted us with a smile and spoke, “Ms. Bounds, I’m here to take you both to the meeting.”
We exchanged smiles, though Agent Reinhardt maintained her usual stoic demeanor, showing little emotion about our reunion. She led us outside to a familiar black SUV with tinted windows.
I opened the door for Becca to sit in the front seat, but Agent Reinhardt insisted we sit in the back. We complied, and the agent quickly checked the road before pulling out.
The drive took about an hour due to traffic, giving us time to catch up and discuss the upcoming meeting.
“Do you know who this psychologist is?” I asked Agent Reinhardt.
“No,” she replied.
“Do you know anything about what they’ll be asking Becca?” I continued.
“No,” she answered again.
“Do you know—” I began to ask, but she cut me off politely.
“No.”
Becca and I shared a smile as Agent Reinhardt kept her focus on the road, occasionally glancing at her watch.
When we arrived, she opened our doors. We followed her into a stark, cold concrete building, its impersonal atmosphere reflecting the serious nature of the people inside. She led us to a conference room and informed us she’d return to collect us when it was time to head to the airport. We mentioned that we’d be staying an extra night and asked if she could take us back to the hotel afterward. She nodded in agreement before leaving us to await the meeting.
Inside the conference room, we found Lisa, who had flown in to ensure everything went smoothly. Also present were Assistant Director Callahan and an older woman in a pantsuit and one-inch block heels. In front of her was a folder with Becca’s picture clipped to it and a large tablet. The folder was like the one Agent Reinhardt had when we first met her.
Lisa gestured for us to take a seat next to her, directly across from Mr. Callahan and his colleague.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet, Ms. Bounds,” Mr. Callahan said, his tone as cautious as it had been during our last encounter. He introduced the older woman as Dr. Myers, though he seemed to prefer calling her “Agent,” describing her as one of the FBI’s psychologists.
We listened intently as the meeting began, covering familiar ground about the significance of Becca’s experience during her transport to the FBI.
Agent Myers then addressed Becca, informing her that she would be taken to a room for a private discussion. I looked at Lisa with concern. Noticing my apprehension, she spoke up.
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