Chapter 25: You Can Say It

We didn’t go to work the next day—not with Megan and her friend still being held. Everyone expected bail to be set at their arraignment, that they’d walk free by afternoon, but until it actually happened, we kept our distance. And of course, that’s exactly how it played out. The judge set bail at twenty thousand for each of them. Twenty thousand. They’d burned down someone’s home—someone’s business, someone’s entire livelihood—and that was all it took to buy their way out.

It was infuriating. But in the end, it wouldn’t matter.

We spent the day at Hana’s place instead, sorting through what we could, piece by piece. It was slow work—deciding what was essential, what could be tucked away for later, what we could stand to let go of. Hana had rented a small storage unit at her apartment complex. They were running a sale, she’d said. It wasn’t much—four by six, barely enough to turn around in—but it was climate-controlled, secure, and just big enough to hold the things we didn’t need every single day.

On Tuesday, we went back to work. Then Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Hana managed to convince Sheriff Collins to hire me for three extra days a week. The bookstore was gone, nothing but ash and memory, and there was nowhere else that could or would take me, not with the restraints. So, each morning I rode with Hana to the station, and each night we returned to her apartment together.

That became our rhythm. Simple. Steady. Grounded. And somehow, in the middle of everything unraveling around us, it felt like a lifeline.

And no one questioned it. Not the fact that we were all crammed into Hana’s tiny apartment, nor that Susan spent half the week with us while also staying with Andrew. On the days she stayed over, she’d just drive to Hana’s place later in the evening. She used our car; Hana and I used hers. No one blinked at the arrangements—logistical or otherwise.

Even the sleeping setup raised no eyebrows. Everyone knew Hana lived in a cramped one-bedroom, but she had a pull-out couch, and I suppose people simply assumed Susan and I shared that while Hana took her own bed. It was odd, yes, but in a way, I was grateful for it. People in this town were always eager to craft their own realities, to fill in the blanks with whatever made sense to them. And those realities, at least for this, worked in our favor.

Being in restraints didn’t faze anyone either. I was always in them at the station—hands cuffed at waist level—greeting visitors, answering phones, filing paperwork, jotting down notes, taking things from people ... listening to locals ramble about conspiracy theories and whatever oddities they were convinced mattered that day. And somehow, day after day, the sight of me moving calmly around the office with cuffs on never seemed to register with anyone. It simply became ... normal.

And that’s what we did.

I worked with Hana Monday through Friday at the station, while Susan helped Andrew at the leather shop. That arrangement made sense, too. Andrew had stepped in for us whenever we needed help at the bookstore, so of course Susan would be at his shop now, taking care of customers. She measured, she managed, she kept everything moving with that steady competence of hers, while Andrew and his father handled the work in the back.

She also started dressing differently—or more like she had at the bookstore. I was no longer guiding, or I guess I should say, dictating her choices; her outfits had taken on a life of their own, transforming her presence into something unmistakably charged. The pieces Andrew made for her weren’t just leather clothes—they were crafted to fit her body like a second skin. Snug, sculpted dresses that traced every curve. Pencil skirts so tight they shaped her stride into a slow, swaying promise. The constriction of the skirts and dresses, combined with stockings that caught the light as she moved and five-inch stilettos, made her utterly impossible to ignore.

And that was the point, I think. The clothes grounded her. Andrew knew they made her feel ... better—like the restraints, like the cuffs she’d worn. Like the sack. The jacket. The multiple blankets from years ago. They were a form of bondage—and that was exactly why he lined some of the more restrictive dresses and skirts with metal boning. They hugged her body, rigid and unyielding, holding her in place.

She wore them on the days she stayed at his place, because the restriction meant she couldn’t sit comfortably, which also meant she couldn’t drive. That way, he could help her out of the clothes later.

But I knew she dressed that way for him, too. Yes, the restriction was deliberate, but it was also intimate and undeniably sexy—a controlled tension she wanted, a sensation that reminded her of the trust and closeness they shared. She wanted him to watch her as she took those tiny, careful steps. She hobbled across the shop, each movement drawing his eyes—the leather clinging to her hips, the whisper of her stockings, the long, perfect lines of her legs in those heels.

She wanted that attention. She asked for it. Andrew certainly didn’t force anything on her, but she wanted it—wanted to be desired by him, wanted to be beautiful for him, wanted him to see her that way. She was ... finally seeing him. She was falling for him.

But it also meant that magnetism—the girl-next-door, sexy-librarian air she carried so effortlessly in those second-skin outfits—drew customers through the door, their attention captured as much by her presence as by the shop itself. It wasn’t a problem. No one would dare do anything other than look, not with Andrew and his father close by.

And that’s what they did.

The days passed, then weeks, then months. Life settled into a steady, careful rhythm, and—honestly—that terrified me. I’d been conditioned to expect that everything good would vanish without warning. Yet here we were. We had made it to January. Still standing. Still together. Still building something that, for the first time in a long time, felt like it might actually last.

“Earth to Anne,” Hana said, pulling me back into the present.