The Analyst
Copyright© 2025 by R. E. Bounds
Epilogue
“Stop the car,” Becca said, trying to point but unable to. She looked at me, “Go back. To that house back there.”
We were heading home, back to the city. The exhibition wrapped up and was an enormous success.
Becca made an appointment with Eleanor first thing last Monday. And yesterday, when they spoke on the phone, Eleanor shared how successful it really was. She informed Becca that the exhibit would be traveling across the U.S. and that she was also in talks about a European tour.
They also discussed Becca’s full-time role with the Barbara Harrington Foundation, which Becca learned was named after Eleanor’s late daughter. Becca would be the foundation’s curator—specifically, its Curatorial Director. But as Becca later explained to me, the title could be whatever she wanted. Needless to say, she happily accepted the role.
The best part was that Becca could work remotely. The hard part would be both of us working from home in that tiny one-bedroom, but the rent was regulated, keeping it affordable. Getting anything else would prevent us from saving.
As I circled the neighborhood, she nodded toward the house, pointing with her nose. I pulled over and parked in front near the realty open house sign.
We were in the neighborhood because we had figured this might be our last time in this part of the state, at least for a while, so we took the scenic route back, driving through some of the most sought-after neighborhoods. And this was one of them.
I looked at Becca. “You want to see it?” I asked, already knowing her answer.
She nodded, looking eager. We were staring at a single-story Craftsman in an older neighborhood. But that was the case for everything in the area. But unlike other neighborhoods we toured, this one was beautifully maintained.
I unbuckled her seatbelt and reached over. “Let me get those off, and we’ll take a look,” I said.
She wouldn’t lean forward so I could undo the padlock. “I’ve spent the last week working in these—eight hours a day, not including the evenings,” she said. “Most days, you kept me in leg cuffs with the connecting chain.”
Becca looked at me. “You dropped me off in the mornings and picked me up at the end of each day. I even walked through the hotel lobby in them,” she said. “We thought nothing of it.”
I nodded, understanding her point. “Yeah, it was part of the routine. It was just how things were during the exhibition, and the time we spent here leading up to it. But, we’re seeing a house in a neighborhood where people might not have heard about you—I’m not sure if—”
Becca cut me off. “It felt normal, and everyone got used to it. You said weeks ago this would happen, and you were right,” she confirmed, echoing my earlier thoughts. “People just got used to seeing me in these—at the museum, the hotel, even the nearby restaurants. It became part of the scenery.”
I nodded in understanding. “We’re going to see that house, and I’m going to do it in these,” Becca said matter-of-factly.
I nodded again. “Okay. You’re right. I’ve kept you in these to help people get used to seeing you this way. So, let’s go see the house,” I said with a smile.
I helped Becca out of the car, making sure her coat was buttoned up against the cold. She had been at the museum earlier, so she was in a dress, hose, and four-inch heels. Her coat concealed the waist chain, but it didn’t hide the hinged handcuffs or the metal lockbox they were in.
I handed Becca her purse, which she had to carry directly in front of her. And together, we entered the house.
It was stunning, completely remodeled to perfection. To the left was a dining room, and to the right, a formal living area. A giant brick fireplace stood prominently in the center, open on all four sides, adding a dramatic focal point to the entrance.
Beyond, we discovered a vast, open space that combined a large kitchen with a breakfast island and a spacious family room. The layout was airy and inviting, with a seamless flow between the kitchen and living areas. Looking up revealed wood beams lining the ceiling, adding a touch of rustic charm to the modern design.
We were greeted by the realtor in this impressive space, ready to give us a tour.
“Hi, my name is Rachel,” she said, extending her hand.
I shook her hand and introduced us. Rachel then extended her hand toward Becca and noticed she was handcuffed.
“Um—” she began but struggled to find the right words.
Seeing Rachel’s reaction, Becca said, “Rachel, we’d really like to see this home.” She paused for a moment, clearly anticipating Rachel’s questions. “Yes, I’m in restraints. Yes, these are handcuffs. Yes, they’re real. And no, I can’t take them off. I have to wear them.” She smiled warmly and added, “If you’d like, we can explain everything to you, but it’s a long story that starts with the FBI.”
Rachel, looking slightly bewildered, said, “Okay. Um—why don’t I show you the house, and if you decide to make an offer, you can tell me the story over a meal?”
Becca smiled. “That sounds fair,” she replied. “Thanks.”
Rachel told us all about the home and the extensive remodeling it had undergone. We toured the two bedrooms, which were connected by a Jack and Jill that was also exposed to the main house. They were generously sized, and Becca and I both saw the potential for one to be easily converted into a home office.
The open space was large enough to create a functional workspace on the other side of the family room. It was clear that this house could easily accommodate both our living and working needs.
The kitchen was stunning, featuring granite countertops, 42-inch cabinets, and brand-new appliances. Behind it was a spacious laundry room with ample cabinets and a station that could be used for folding clothes or converted into a small work area.
Rachel led us out a back door that was adjacent to the laundry room and into the backyard, which was beautifully landscaped and surprisingly large compared to some homes we had seen closer to the city. There was also a detached garage with a covered walkway, and the driveway ran alongside the house. Above the garage was an unfinished space that could easily be converted into a loft or a one-bedroom studio.
I stepped into the yard to get a feel for the size and heard Rachel and Becca talk. “Um—how long have you had to wear those?” Rachel asked.
Becca, counting the weeks and months in her head, responded, “It was late August when I was first put in these.”