The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 26: Ready to Stop Fighting
“What happened?” Isla’s voice was still groggy as she scanned the basement, eyes catching on the laundry scattered all over the floor.
“I brought the laundry stuff down last weekend and thought I’d get it organized this morning while you were still sleeping,” I said, shrugging. “And ... we really need to do laundry.”
I started picking up the detergent and various other items, placing them carefully on top of the dryer. “The shelf just gave way. I knew it was one of those cheap particle-board bookcases from Walmart, but I didn’t realize it was in such bad shape.”
She frowned, rubbing her eyes. “I heard noises and thought something was wrong. Then I saw the moving truck outside the Prescotts’ place. I figured that was it ... until I heard you down here.”
“Sorry for waking you.” I glanced up. “There’s a moving truck across the street?”
Isla gave a tired nod. “Yeah. I really needed to get up, anyway. Can’t just sleep all day.” She paused, squinting toward the small dirty basement window. “It looks like they’re unloading this huge table.”
I nodded and walked over to the small window set high in the wall, stretching to lift myself up and peek outside. After everything that had happened yesterday—the hearing, all the emotions, the weight of it all—Isla had gone straight to bed the moment we got home. She wasn’t sick, wasn’t running a fever. She was just ... drained. Like the world had finally caught up to her, and she couldn’t keep it together anymore.
“Do you feel any better?” I asked softly, not wanting to push too much.
Isla shrugged, her eyes drifting back to the window, watching the vague shadows of movement. “I’m ... okay. Just tired.”
“Might be that kitchen table Sophie mentioned she was trying to get,” I said, guessing.
Isla nodded, her eyes now again focused on the mess. “Can we fix it?”
I gave a small shake of my head, looking her way. “Honestly? I think this thing’s done for. I guess we could buy a used shelf. Maybe from a thrift store or something.”
I reached out, grabbing the piece of shelving that was hanging loose, hoping to pull it off so I could throw it away. But as soon as I tugged, I realized that a few of these bits were basically holding the whole thing together. The shelf shifted sharply to the right as the piece came free.
“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “This thing’s garbage.”
“Is that a door?” Isla asked, pointing behind the now-exposed bookcase.
She was right. There was a doorframe, and I could just make out the top hinge.
I stepped aside, dragging the shelving toward the center of the basement. It completely fell apart as I moved it, and there it was—behind the mess stood a solid white wooden door. The kind with a built-in lock, like the rest of the original hardware in the house, all installed when it was first built.
“Locked,” Isla said, giving the handle a try. “What do you think’s back there? A closet or something?”
She glanced around the rest of the basement. “I don’t see any other doors.”
I pointed toward a corner of the basement. “The wall juts out over there. I never really understood why, but I guess there’s probably a storage room or something behind it. Could be part of the foundation, or maybe for plumbing?”
“There’s that ring of keys in the kitchen,” Isla said. “The ones we found the other day when we were unpacking. Maybe one of them will work?” She ran upstairs to grab the keys and called me up a minute later.
I headed upstairs and found Sophie standing in our foyer, talking to two movers.
“Hey, sorry about just showing up unannounced,” Sophie said with a little shrug. “But...” She pointed back toward her place. “We finally got the table. And since the movers are still here, I thought they could bring over our old one?” She grinned, adding, “I might have gotten you something else too.”
Isla and I exchanged a glance. “That’s really sweet of you,” I said, smiling. “Yes, please.”
The movers headed back across the street to grab the table. As they did, Isla kissed me and told me she’d be in the basement, probably to try those keys. I could tell she was eager to see if one of them would open the mysterious door.
Sophie and I chatted while the movers brought in the table. I’d seen it before, sat at it during multiple dinners at their place, but here, in our home, it just looked ... right. It was just a table, but the gesture was really thoughtful. And, honestly, it was nice to finally have one. No more eating on the couch, or sitting at bar stools to eat at the kitchen counter.
We positioned the chairs around it, making it feel more like home. Then the movers came back in, this time carrying a very large wardrobe. One of those beautiful, antique-looking pieces you see in movies.
Sophie pointed to one of the empty walls. “There, please,” she told the movers.
They carefully set the wardrobe down and began unwrapping it.
“Let me handle the movers,” she said with a smile. “I’ll come back and fill you in on this.” She pointed at the wardrobe as she walked back across the street.
While she was gone, I opened the doors and took a closer look. The wardrobe was beautiful—solid wood, well-made. Inside, the top was lined with shelving, set back a bit, with small pegs along the inside of the doors, likely for hanging items. The bottom half had three large drawers, also set back to accommodate the pegs when the doors were closed, but still deep enough to hold plenty of things. It was clearly designed for storage, and lots of it.
Sophie came back a few minutes later, just as I heard the movers pulling away from the curb. She walked in carrying a set of really nice plastic baskets.
“Oh good,” she said, seeing I’d opened it. “You’ve already got it opened.”
She began stacking the baskets on the shelves—four smaller bins on top, and three larger ones on the bottom. They fit perfectly, like the wardrobe was built with those baskets in mind.
“I couldn’t pass this up,” Sophie said, grinning. “I stumbled across it while I was wandering around, and, well ... I just had to have it.”
She smiled again. “And I might’ve had it modified a little. I have a friend who does amazing woodwork. I had him mount the pegs inside the doors and reinforce the hinges.” She paused, as if proud of her find. “I got really lucky to find a wardrobe with sunken shelving and drawers.”
I must’ve looked confused, not fully understanding what I was seeing.
She noticed. “Where’s that bag?” she asked.
I knew exactly what she meant. I disappeared into the bedroom, grabbed the black bag from the closet, and returned. Sophie had already grabbed one of the chairs and placed it next to the wardrobe, pointing to the spot where she wanted me to set the bag.
I placed it on the chair as she unzipped it, pulling out the items. She began carefully sorting them into the different bins, making sure each one went in the right place. Isla and I had already organized the pieces, ensuring the keys were matched up correctly.
“The bins are clear,” Sophie said, glancing up at me as she finished. “So, it’s really easy to see what’s what. You’ll always know you have what you need ... including the right keys.”
I watched as Sophie quickly organized everything into the wardrobe, including placing the leather belt in one of the bottom drawers.
“And the jewelry...” she caught herself. “The cuffs, I mean. The ones Isla usually wears?” Sophie asked, glancing at me. “Where are they?”
“Ben explained the jewelry thing to me. You can call them that—it’s fine. I think it’s kind of nice that you just see them as regular jewelry.”
I walked into the kitchen and pulled them all out of a drawer.
“We didn’t really know where to keep them,” I said, handing them over. “Not exactly something I have much experience with.”
Sophie smiled, taking the pieces from me. She hung them on the pegs alongside the keys.
“The everyday ones go on the doors,” she explained. “Really easy to grab. These,” she added, gesturing to the others, “are the ones Steve has a copy of the keys for.”
She then glanced up at me. “Do these have three sets of the keys?”
I nodded.
Sophie held out her hand. “We’ll keep a copy at our place. Just in case. Between Steve, us, and you, you’ll never have to worry. Okay?” Her voice was soft, reassuring.
“What other ones does Steve have keys for that have three sets?” Sophie asked.
I showed them to her, and she carefully pulled them from the bins, placing them on the pegs. Then, she took one set of keys and added them to the other ones I had given her.
“These are for the outdoors,” Sophie said, holding up the first set. “These are the ones Isla wears when she goes out. Again, you don’t have to worry.” She flashed me a reassuring smile. “The ones in the bins are for when you need them. But it looks like you’ve got at least two sets for each. So, if something happens, I can always run over and grab the other set of keys.”
I nodded, finally understanding what she was doing. She’d really thought this through.
Sophie closed the doors and gave a small nod. “Out of sight until you need them. And as long as you follow the basic rules and put everything away correctly, you’ll never have to worry.”
“Will the courts be getting you some standard cuffs? Like the ones Sophie and I wear?” She asked gently.
She turned to me, her tone softer, “Ben mentioned it—he thought maybe the courts could get her something lighter, like ours. I actually spoke to Jeffrey yesterday, but it slipped my mind to ask.”
“That was the plan,” I said. “But I decided not to bring it up with Jeffrey.”
I glanced at Sophie and shrugged. “Isla seems to prefer the shorter leg cuffs, even though she could wear the longer ones. Says the longer ones feel awkward in heels.”
I paused, then added, “I know the standard cuffs come with short chains. But she seemed fine with those.” I nodded toward the wardrobe. “So, I left it alone. And then there’s the court—the judge said she has to wear whatever’s listed in her record. So, honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered.”
Sophie smiled faintly. “Yeah ... Becca says the same thing ... about the longer leg cuffs feeling ‘awkward.’”
Then she looked at me again, more earnestly. “If that’s what makes her feel a little more okay, then that’s what you use. Just put them on her. Don’t turn it into a conversation. Not unless it has to be. She’s already carrying a lot—don’t add to it if you don’t have to.”
“I just worry about the hobble,” I said. “That’s going to wear on her over time.”
Sophie nodded slowly. “That’s why it’ll matter that she’s not like that at home. And if she really wants to keep them on around the house ... just tell her that’s when she has to switch to the longer ones.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to,” Sophie said, smiling. “I hope you don’t mind me speaking to Jeffrey. Normally, I don’t meddle in other people’s business. Really, I don’t. I’ve had enough people in this town meddle in mine. So, I know what it’s like.”
She picked up the chair and walked it back to the table, continuing as she spoke. “But I really like you guys. And as strong as Isla is...” She looked at me, her expression softening. “She’s going to struggle with this. Jeffrey told you both, right? That this could drag on for months? Isla will have to go back to court more times than you’ll even remember?”
I nodded. “Yeah, he’s been upfront with us.”
Sophie gave a small nod of her own. “In the end, Isla will come out of this on top. But the road to get there is going to be rough.”
“At least this way, you don’t have to worry about the jewelry,” she added. “They won’t be out in the open. And the piece really adds a touch of elegance to the house, and soon, it’ll just feel normal for the two of you. You’ll reach a point where putting them on her becomes second nature, and you won’t even think twice about it.”
“Trust me,” she said, “you’ll just pull them off the pegs and Isla will already be standing there—hands out, wrists together. It’ll become completely automatic for her.”
She glanced around the room. “We have a nice cushy chair at our place we’ll give you. It doesn’t really fit—it’s kind of a loner. The rest of the set is long gone, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out.”
She smiled faintly. “But it’ll be perfect here, by the wardrobe. Just the right height for Isla to kneel on while getting cuffed.”
I didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, but then I started telling her what happened in the car yesterday—how Isla finally felt everything catch up to her. How I was terrified that come Monday, I’d be at the hospital all day, maybe working 12-hour shifts, and Isla would be here alone, unable to go out, dealing with everything on her own.
I don’t know why I told her all of that, but there’s something about Sophie—she just has this way of making you feel safe, like everything would somehow be okay.
She wrapped her arms around me in a warm hug and said exactly what I needed to hear: that everything would work out. She was already working on a solution, but more than that, she reminded me that Isla had me, and we had her, Becca, and Ben.
I could feel my throat tighten as the tears started to well up. There were no words to express how grateful I was for that simple, caring gesture.
Just then, Isla popped her head in from the door leading to the basement. Her voice was serious, her expression focused. “You—you need to see this.”
We followed her downstairs, and I realized she had managed to get the door open. As she’d suspected, it led to a storage room, narrow and long. Maybe five or six feet deep, ten feet wide. The room looked drab but not damp—just old, like it hadn’t been touched in years. Maybe even longer.
“There’s a light, but it doesn’t work,” Isla said, pointing toward the ceiling.
I glanced up, then walked over to another shelf in the basement and grabbed a spare bulb. I reached up, swapped the old one out, and pulled the string.
The dim glow of the light revealed two massive steel shelves, their surfaces weighed down with years of dust and neglect. The shadows initially swallowed the details, but as our eyes adjusted, the items slowly began to come into focus.
Two straitjackets hung across the shelves—canvas stiff with dust but surprisingly well-preserved. Beside them, leather cuffs, cracked with age yet still solid, lay neatly arranged, each set paired with long, heavy straps.
I then spotted what looked like a matching muzzle, beside the straps, its brown leather darkened with time.
On the floor, an old cardboard box had disintegrated, its contents scattered. A few tarnished padlocks lay half-buried in dust, their brass dulled over the years.
The air was thick with the scent of old leather, a musty odor that filled the space, finally freed after years of neglect. But despite this, the items looked like they were in good shape, the room clearly having stayed dry over the years.
“What ... what is all this?” Isla asked, her voice trembling. “Why is it here?”
Sophie placed her hand against the block wall and studied it for a moment. “We should head upstairs,” she said softly. “I need to fill you in on some things.”
We made our way to the new table, and Sophie began to explain. She told us that their place had originally been owned by a doctor who ran the asylum—or the women’s prison, depending on who you asked. Becca and Ben were the third owners, and although the house had been remodeled, there was still a hidden room in the master bedroom, adjacent to the walk-in closet. They called it the “quiet room.”
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