The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 1: It’s All Connected
“Did your friend get back to you?” Isla asked, her tone casual but pointed, eyes flicking toward me as I walked in. She was curled up on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, the other lazily draped over a throw pillow. Her fingers traced slow, absent-minded circles on the fabric—unfocused, yet not quite detached.
“You’re still up,” I said softly, stepping into the hallway entrance of our apartment, surprised to see the living room light still on.
“Yeah,” she murmured.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked, setting my keys down gently on the entryway table, the sound oddly loud in the stillness of the room.
She nodded. The silence between us stretched for a moment, long enough to feel like something else was hanging in the air. Then she glanced at me again.
“Did you?” she asked.
I let out a quiet breath, unsure how to answer. My shift had been long—one of those that leaves your body exhausted but your thoughts rattling like loose change in a jar.
“Yeah,” I said, crossing the room and lowering myself beside her. She shifted without a word, stretching her legs across my lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. My hands came to rest on her calves, warm and still.
“He did,” I said again, a little louder this time, unsure if she’d heard me the first time.
She didn’t say anything right away, just nodded again. But this time, it was different—sharper, somehow. Her fingers had stopped moving.
“From the sheriff’s office in the town over?” she clarified.
I nodded. “Yeah, him. We talked for a while.”
“So?” Isla pressed, cocking an eyebrow. “What did he say?”
I leaned back into the cushions. “Well ... at first, I thought we were talking about Becca, right? But turns out we weren’t.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“He started telling me about this woman who’s always in restraints—like, never out of them. I was confused because I thought Becca had said it was just on Tuesdays. She made it sound like she only wore them one day a week at the museum.”
“Yeah,” Isla said, nodding slowly. “That’s what she told us.”
“Right, but this woman he was talking about ... it wasn’t her. Not Becca. Not even Sophie. It was someone else entirely. He was talking about one of the sisters who runs that used bookstore downtown—you know, the one we passed by on the way to their house? Down from the park and the museum?”
Isla blinked. “Wait. Hold on. There’s another one?”
“Apparently,” I said, rubbing my thumb over her ankle. “He said there are two sisters. One of them is in transport restraints, like regularly. Like it’s just ... part of how she lives. My buddy doesn’t know the full story. Still, when people call the station about it, which apparently happens, they just say yeah, they’re aware, and no, she’s not being held against her will.”
“Wait, wait—so she’s in cuffs? All the time?” Isla’s voice had risen just slightly.
I nodded, “That’s what he said.”
“There’s no way,” Isla said, her voice picking up a trace of disbelief. “If that’s true, they can’t be, like, full chains. It’s probably just cuffs. Like—handcuffs and leg cuffs or something. Maybe a chain connecting the two. Tops. But there’s no way she’s in a belly chain.”
She looked at me now, thoroughly, like she needed me to agree just so the world could make sense again. “There’s no way she’s stuck with her hands at her waist all the time,” she went on, brows pulling together. “Yeah, there’s no way.”
I shrugged and nodded again. “Yeah, I thought that too. But that’s what he said. And get this—according to him, it’s her sister who keeps her in them.”
“That’s ... that’s really fucked up,” Isla said, looking surprised. “Did he say anything else?”
“He didn’t have a lot of details,” I said, shaking my head. “Just that it’s consensual, apparently. He said he’s never seen them himself, but it’s well-known in that part of town. People gossip. And Becca, somehow, might have been the one who got them into it. Or at least ... introduced it.”
Isla was quiet for a moment, her eyes flicking from my face to the space beyond my shoulder.
“So, Becca’s involved in this?” Isla asked, her gaze steady, locking onto mine. “She’s the reason that woman isn’t allowed to use her hands?”
“Maybe,” I replied, my voice trailing off. “To what degree, I don’t know. But she’s involved in it somehow.”
Isla then asked, “And people call the sheriff about it?”
“Yeah. Complaints, mostly, my buddy said. Or just ... people being nosy. But the department can’t do anything if there’s no crime. So, they just tell callers that they’re aware and that she’s not being held captive.”
“Wait. You’re saying they don’t do anything about it? Like, nothing?” Isla insisted, her tone sharp with disbelief. She couldn’t seem to accept that the sheriff’s department in that town just allowed women to walk around in restraints like it was normal.
“No,” I said. “I guess it’s not illegal ... and like they told us at dinner—it draws people in, boosts tourism, helps the shops; people are just ... curious.”
“But it gets more interesting,” I told her.
She looked at me, raising her eyebrows.
“He said the sister was recently arrested for assault or something. That she’s been locked up at their station because she couldn’t post bail. And that he saw her there—not in her cell—but helping another deputy with everyday stuff. But the deputy had her in full restraints. Like, all of it.”
“So, the sister’s now incarcerated?” she asked. “Because she attacked someone?”
I nodded. “Might’ve been multiple people,” I said with a shrug. “He wasn’t exactly sure.”
“She has to wear them for real now?” Isla asked, shaking her head. She clearly didn’t believe it. “How do you attack multiple people when you’re in transport restraints all the time? How is that even possible? How do you attack someone with your hands chained to your waist?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe that’s why her sister had her in them to begin with.” I shrugged again. “Maybe she knew her sister was dangerous and made her wear them. Maybe that’s why she has to stay in them even when she’s not in her cell.”
She drew her legs back slightly, their touch still resting against me but less relaxed. She seemed unsettled.
“Did he say anything about Becca? Like, after you clarified who you were asking about?”
“He did, yeah,” I said. “Once he figured out I meant her, it clicked. He confirmed everything she told us.”
Isla sat up a little straighter. “All of it?”
“Yep. The sheriff—Collins, I think his name is—he made Becca wear transport restraints every time she was out. Wrists cuffed to her waist, ankle shackles, the whole thing. Even in her yard.”
“Really?” Isla asked, her voice a little breathless and surprised. “Even if she was just in the backyard? That yard seemed completely secluded.”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice quieter now. “If her hands were in front, they had to be secured with a waist chain or belt attached to her waist. Otherwise, they had to be cuffed behind her back. And if she was out running errands, it was the full setup—cuffs, lockbox ... leg cuffs, everything. My buddy made it sound like there was no getting around it.”
“Why?” Isla asked quietly. “Why would the sheriff make her do that? I mean, Becca said it was for safety. But ... let’s say that’s true—how is that even legal?” Her voice wavered in disbelief.
“Well, this is where it gets ... murky,” I said, my voice lowering. “The FBI was involved—Collins had a contact who confirmed that Becca was officially taken from New York to Philly, but she never arrived—”
“What does that mean?” Isla asked, cutting me off, her brow furrowing in confusion.
“She was supposed to be taken to the Philadelphia courthouse for a trial or something, but there’s no record of her ever getting there.”
“I don’t understand,” Isla said, shaking her head. “How is that possible?”
“There’s no record of her being processed into the courthouse, no documentation of her being held,” I explained. “The FBI took her to Philly, and she disappeared for two days. Left on a Monday, came back on a Wednesday.”
“So, where was she?” Isla pressed. “I mean, where was she for those two days?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “That’s a good question.”
I continued, my voice steady but cluttered with the weight of what I was about to say. “And here’s the part that really stands out: she was in high-security transport restraints—not just regular cuffs, but the kind used for high-risk prisoners. Her case file specifically stated that she had to remain in them at all times.”
“What?” Isla whispered, her eyes widening with disbelief. “So, she disappeared for two days, in full chains—she was required to stay in?”
“And get this,” I said, leaning in a little. “There’s only a record of the flight there, not the return. She was flown on a commercial flight, but there’s no record of her coming back. Only that she returned that Wednesday.”
Isla looked even more stunned. “She went to Philly on a commercial flight? With other people? Restrained? The belly chain? That stupid box thing? All of it?”
I nodded. “Yeah, but there’s no record of how she got back.”
“Wow,” Isla whispered, her voice heavy with disbelief. “I—I thought they used those special planes.”
“Uh, yeah, that’s what my buddy told me,” I said, leaning back. “The whole thing is a jumbled mess of irregularities—stuff that doesn’t add up. Given she had to wear restraints like that, she would’ve had to travel on one of those planes where they chain you to your seat on the floor. He said your leg cuff chain is secured to the floor until the plane lands.”
“And she couldn’t explain any of it to the sheriff,” Isla repeated, her mind flashing back to what Becca had said at dinner. “Remember? She said she wasn’t allowed to talk about it. Even now ... even after they let her stop wearing them, she still couldn’t say why.”
“Yep,” I said. “That’s what I was told, too. My buddy said it drove the sheriff crazy. She wouldn’t tell him anything—not what happened during the transport, why the FBI was making her wear them ... nothing.”
“So, that’s how she ended up having to wear them whenever she went out?” Isla asked, connecting the dots. “In her yard, too?”
“I think so,” I replied. “Even the sheriff’s contact at the FBI wouldn’t give him any details. So, whatever it was, Collins felt it was serious enough that Becca needed to be restrained in public. She was already wearing them because of the FBI, so he just made it a requirement for his office, too.”
“The liberties thing they were talking about?” Isla said, piecing it together. “That’s what Becca meant when she said she eventually had to. She had to wear the full set, not just pick and choose what she wore and when.”
“Maybe,” I responded, considering it. “That makes sense.”
I looked at Isla. “So, whether it was legal or not, I guess it didn’t matter. It’s a small town, and the sheriff was spooked enough to make her wear them—or at least keep an eye on her to make sure she stayed in them. My buddy said the deputies were even authorized to arrest her and hold her if they found her not restrained around others. That included the leg cuffs, too.”
“So that explains the extra cuffs,” Isla remarked, continuing to put things together. “And that long chain, the one that ran from her waist to them. She had to wear them, but just wasn’t. Not until they moved to that town, and well, the sheriff made her.”
“And my buddy?” I continued. “He said the ones she had to wear—the ones the FBI had her in—they were short-chained.”
“What do you mean?” Isla asked, not quite understanding.
“The chain was only about six inches long.”
Isla hunched forward a little. “What? They—they have leg cuffs like that? How do you even walk?”
“Apparently,” I said, “she had to hobble.”
“So, the leg cuffs she had on at dinner—the ones she came home in from the museum—those weren’t the same?” she asked.
“Doesn’t look like it,” I replied. “Those were more like the ones I’ve seen cops put on people at crime scenes sometimes—standard length. But the ones my buddy described were more like oversized handcuffs.”
“But she doesn’t wear them anymore,” Isla said. “Right? Did your friend confirm that?”
“Yeah. He did. She doesn’t have to,” I said. “My buddy said two agents showed up at the museum, took the restraints off her, and told her she didn’t have to wear them again—the sheriff was there and saw it happen, and apparently, the release had been coordinated with him; I guess he’d already been in contact with one of the agents, but my buddy wasn’t sure.”
“So ... she was telling the truth,” Isla said slowly as everything continued to fall into place. “About all of it. Even though we still don’t know why she was in them to begin with. Or where she was for those two days in Philly.”
I nodded. “Seems that way.”
“And Sophie?” Isla asked.
I hesitated. “We talked about her briefly—he said she wears them too, at the museum. But it’s more of an artistic thing, somehow tied to the exhibitions; he didn’t really explain much beyond that.”
Isla looked at me, seemingly wanting more. “That’s it?”
“Yeah. He didn’t want to talk about her. Got quiet. Said she’s ... complicated. That she’s a sore subject around the department, mostly with the sheriff.”
Isla raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“I don’t know,” I said, leaning my head back and letting out a breath. “I get the sense that something happened with her—or because of her—and nobody wants to poke at it. Like she’s off-limits. Like saying the wrong thing might open up something that nobody’s ready to talk about ... or maybe doesn’t want to deal with.”
Isla’s brow furrowed as she processed the information. “So, there are three women in that town who wear restraints out in public?” she asked her voice laced with disbelief and curiosity. “And the sheriff knows about all of them and just lets it happen?”