Chapter 24: To Remain in Restraints

I slid the keys into the glovebox, and we made our way to the entrance where Jeffrey was waiting for us. He glanced at his watch and nodded. “Good. Punctual,” he said with a sharp tone.

His voice then quickened as he outlined what was about to happen. He’d already spoken with the officers, who understood the situation—but protocol was protocol. Isla would have to be treated like any other prisoner transfer. She would be a detainee in restraints, arriving for her hearing under strict supervision.

This meant Isla would be escorted like any high-risk inmate—two officers at her sides, one behind her.

She’d be in full transport restraints the entire time. No bag. No jewelry. No phone. No coat, even though the building was cold. But she was wearing one of Becca’s tailored business suits, and between the fitted jacket, the crisp blouse beneath, and the pantyhose, she’d stay reasonably warm.

Once inside, she’d be placed in a holding area like any other detainee—at least until a court officer came to escort her to the hearing room.

It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been charged with a crime. It didn’t matter that everyone involved knew she didn’t belong in the system at all. The escapee flag on her record was still active—and until it was cleared, the rules stayed in place.

Jeffrey had stressed that the officers were sympathetic—but they had to protect themselves too. If anything went wrong—if someone panicked, if another agency saw her unrestrained—they’d be the ones answering for it. So, for now, she’d move through the courthouse as a prisoner, not a citizen. No exceptions.

The only good news was that our case had been moved to the top of the docket. Isla would be the first one called. It meant she wouldn’t have to spend the entire day waiting—or worse, sitting in lockup just to be seen.

And that’s what happened as soon as we walked in.

Two court officers were waiting just past the security gate. They didn’t raise their voices, didn’t bark commands—this wasn’t theater. It was routine. Quiet. Efficient. Dehumanizing in its silence.

One of them glanced down at Isla’s heels—four-inch open toe stilettos, sharp at the toe, narrow at the heel. “We’ll need to check the shoes,” he said, almost apologetically, then added to Jeffrey, “Standard procedure. You understand.”

But Isla obviously couldn’t reach them. The waist chain held her wrists tight to her waist. She tried anyway, shifting her weight and pushing one pointed heel against the other. The motion was awkward, almost desperate. The short chain between her ankles clinked as she fought to get the first shoe off.

She almost managed it—but then paused, breathing hard through her nose. I stepped in.

“Can I help her with those?” I asked.

The officers glanced at each other, then nodded. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

I crouched down and eased the stilettos off her feet, one at a time. I’d fitted the restraints more snugly than usual before we left the house—not excessive, just secure. Tight enough that no one would question it, especially not with the escapee flag active in her file. It was the kind of fit I thought the court would expect and more than I normally did, but this wasn’t a normal day.

But now, barefoot on the courthouse floor in just her stockings, Isla couldn’t stand flat-footed without the cuffs digging into her ankles. So, she stayed on her toes—deliberately, silently—balancing in that delicate, unnatural way dancers do when en pointe. She reminded me of Becca and the way she walked the same way.

The officers said nothing more. One took the shoes and held them like contraband. Behind us, I could hear murmurs from the hall—someone whispering, someone chuckling under their breath. Words weren’t clear, but the tone was. Curious. Dismissive. A little cruel.

They didn’t see an administrative error. They saw what they were told to see. Isla was a dangerous inmate, heavily restrained. And to them, the bare feet and business suit made it worse somehow—like she was pretending to be something she wasn’t.

Isla didn’t flinch. She didn’t react at all. She just stood there on the balls of her feet, perfectly composed, chains taut and silent, waiting for the walk to begin.

The officer holding her heels turned to set them aside, but the female guard at Isla’s side held up a hand.

“Let her carry them,” she said quietly.

The male guard hesitated and said almost reflexively. “Standard says—”

“She’s not going to throw a shoe at anyone,” the woman cut in, her voice dry. “Her hands are cuffed to her waist and locked in a safety box. She can barely move her wrists, let alone launch something. Just let her hold them.”

The male officer didn’t argue. He handed Isla the shoes without another word.

She took them carefully, gripping one heel in each hand, her wrists barely able to rotate inside the cuffs. The black patent leather shimmered under the fluorescent lights—sleek, elegant, totally out of place against the stainless steel lockbox secured at her waist.

“All right,” the lead officer said. “Let’s move.”

They formed around her—one officer on each side, another just behind—then began the walk.

Isla’s movements were small. Each step had to land just right—no room for a stumble, no forgiveness from the restraints. The connecting chain snapped taut every few inches, forcing her into a halting rhythm. She made no sound herself, but the shoes in her hands shifted gently with every stride, heels tapping against one another like metronomes.

People turned to look as they passed—attorneys, clerks, a janitor wheeling a cart down the hallway. Some glanced and looked away immediately. Others stared. One woman near the elevators murmured, “Jesus,” under her breath, loud enough to carry. Another woman in a business suit stopped mid-sentence on her phone call and followed Isla’s movement with wide eyes.

None of them said anything to us. They didn’t have to.

To them, she looked like any other inmate flagged high-risk—barefoot, chained, escorted, silent. The shoes only made it worse. Like she’d been caught mid-transformation, halfway between the world of courtrooms and holding cells.

Isla didn’t look back as the heavy steel door swung open. She stepped inside the holding area without hesitation, her posture rigid, the faint click of her cuffs and chains echoing off the cold walls. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a harsh glare on the sterile room. The guards exchanged quick nods before closing the door behind her, the sound thudding heavy and final.

I followed close behind, Jeffrey with me. Neither of us said a word, but his eyes flicked toward the locked door, then back at me—an acknowledgment of the situation.

I stood just outside the holding area, the thick glass window giving me a clear view of Isla inside. She was near the far wall, hands cuffed at her waist, chains taut and unyielding. Around her, other detainees shifted restlessly—some pacing, others sitting silently on cold metal benches, their eyes wary or vacant. The dull murmur of whispered conversations and the scrape of shackles filled the cramped space.

But Isla remained still, her expression unreadable, gaze fixed straight ahead like a statue carved from resolve. Not a flicker of emotion betrayed her as she waited for the court officer to arrive.

After a few minutes, the officer appeared at the holding area door and motioned to Isla. The murmurs died down as detainees shifted their attention, some curious, some indifferent.

The officer glanced at the heels, then back at Isla. He then looked to the female guard standing nearby. She shrugged. “We usually don’t allow heels that high in court for security reasons. But given she’s already been inspected, and it’s a controlled environment ... I say let her.”