The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 2: Some Dumb Bondage Bitch
Two weeks went by before the Prescotts came up in conversation again. That’s what we had decided to call them. Oddly enough, it happened while we were at the flea market—the one we go to about once a month. We were on the hunt for a kitchen table.
We were weaving through the maze of stalls when we spotted Sophie.
“Oh, hey,” she said casually.
“Hi,” we both replied.
“Antiquing?” Sophie asked.
“Looking for a kitchen table,” I said. “Kind of don’t have one right now. We moved in together back in May, and, well ... money’s been kind of tight.”
“You guys need a table?” Sophie asked, seemingly happy about it.
“Uh, yeah,” Isla said. “We’ve been hoping to find one here.”
“We have the one we had dinner at—the one at our place,” Sophie offered. “If you can wait a little while, you can have it. I’ve been trying to find us a bigger one, and I think I finally did. Just waiting on confirmation—and, of course, actually getting it. But once that happens, you’re welcome to ours. I’ll just need to check with Ben and Becca, but I doubt they’ll mind.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Yeah, thanks,” Isla echoed.
Sophie opened her purse. “Here, give me your number? I’ll text you when you can come pick it up. I know Becca has Noah’s, but I’ve been meaning to get yours,” she said to Isla. “We’ve got some work at the museum coming up, and with Becca being pregnant, she’s not going to be able to wear the restraints much longer. Maybe you can help us, with you being an actor and all.”
“Becca’s pregnant?” I asked, though I could already see that Isla was fixated on something else—on what it meant that Sophie needed her for something at the museum, something tied to the fact that Becca could no longer wear restraints because of the pregnancy.
Sophie nodded. “Yeah. Ben and I found out at the hospital after the accident. That’s when one of the doctors told us ... that we were having our first child.”
“It was a surprise to us, too,” she added. Then, with a slight smile, she looked at me and said, “You saved another life that day.”
As she rummaged through her bag for her phone, we both noticed a pair of handcuffs tucked inside.
Sophie saw us looking and said, completely unfazed, “They’re for Becca. Back when she had to wear them.”
She tapped her phone screen, waking it up. “Since the sheriff was making her wear them, we started keeping a pair in my purse. Just in case something happened while we were out, and she needed to be cuffed.”
“Ben and I always made sure she was in the transport cuffs whenever we left the house. So, it was just a precaution.” She glanced up at us then, tone flat. “Steve can be a real prick.”
“Can I get your number?” she asked Isla.
Isla rattled it off, and I heard her phone buzz in her back pocket almost immediately.
“Okay,” Sophie smiled. “Just sent you a text. Thanks.”
She glanced between us. “How about next Saturday?” Then she checked her phone. “No, wait. We’ve got a wedding. Friends of Ben and Becca’s.” She looked back up. “I was going to say you could come over for tea or something—so Becca and I could fill you in on the museum stuff.”
Then she noticed someone eyeing a piece she’d been watching before we had run into each other.
“That woman is about to take my piece,” she said, a little alarmed. “I need to outbid her.”
She smiled, stepping away. “It was nice seeing you two again. I’ll text you about the museum work and let you know about the table. Bye!”
We wandered around a bit longer but didn’t stay much past that.
On the drive home, of course, Sophie came up in conversation, mostly about Becca being pregnant. It helped us piece together a few more things. For one, Isla seemed to be right: Sophie wasn’t just some temporary caretaker stepping in during a rough patch. The way she talked about the pregnancy—about them finding out about their first child—made it clear that she saw herself as part of the family. This wasn’t just about helping out. This was personal. Intimate.
The handcuffs in her purse didn’t exactly contradict that either.
If anything, her offhanded comment about the sheriff—calling him Steve and calling him a prick—only made everything feel more real. More connected. The cuffs weren’t some weird prop or leftover kink accessory, but they were something Becca really needed to wear. Not because Sophie or Ben were forcing it, but because someone else—someone with power—was.
And Sophie’s tone when she said his name? That casual bitterness? It told us everything. There’d been something between them—her and the sheriff. Something messy, maybe even personal. But now, she was clearly on Becca’s side.
All of it gave us a clearer picture of who Sophie was and where her loyalties lay.
I knew Isla wanted to talk about the museum, the possible work, and what Sophie had really meant when she said Becca couldn’t wear restraints anymore. What did that have to do with Isla, and what role did they apparently need her to fill? I gave her every opportunity to bring it up, but she didn’t. She stayed quiet on the subject.
The Prescotts didn’t come up again until the following Wednesday—and not because of Sophie or any texts she might’ve sent Isla.
I’d been teaching a CPR certification course at the maximum-security prison about an hour north of us all week. The guards are required to stay certified, and while they usually handled that training in-house, recent budget cuts have forced them to outsource it. My company landed the contract.
My buddy was working there, too—his department runs a joint program with the prison, training K9 units for security, contraband detection, and search and rescue. He was up there rotating the dogs through their drills.
During a break earlier that day, we had a chance to catch up. Nothing formal, just a quick chat over bad coffee and worse vending machine snacks. And, of course, Becca came up.
Now, back home, I was halfway through telling Isla what I’d learned—conversation still fresh in my mind, energy drained, but adrenaline still flickering from what my buddy had told me.
“You can actually buy those?” Isla asked, clearly surprised. “Like, anyone can just buy them?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, you can buy restraints like them. But the ones with those specific stampings? I don’t think so.”
I paused, thinking it through. “Those stamps—they’re like serial numbers. They’re tied to specific agencies. Each set gets logged, tracked, and assigned. They’re not just floating around in the open market.”
Isla frowned, clearly trying to piece it together. “If it’s like a serial number, how did your friend know they were the same ones? Did he look them up or something?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. He just told me that the ones he’s seen her in recently ... they had the same stampings.”
She looked skeptical. “He can tell that just by looking?”
“I guess,” I said, still working it out myself. “Maybe it’s not just the numbers—it could be where they’re stamped or how. The ones I saw at the prison had markings, too, but they were in a different place than the ones Becca had on.”
Isla leaned forward slightly, still frowning. “So why go through all that trouble? Why try to find another set exactly like the ones she used to wear? If they just wanted restraints, couldn’t they get something close enough?”
She paused, then asked, “Are the FBI ones better?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Honestly, the ones I saw at the prison today seemed like better quality. Thicker steel, sturdier chain links. The ones Becca had on looked more like standard-issue cuffs—the kind that take universal keys.”
I hesitated. “But it’s hard to say. I haven’t worked with restraints to know if there’s some subtle difference. They looked normal. Except...”
“Except what?”
“The lockbox. That was different. The ones I’ve seen don’t usually have that angled design.”
“So, the lockbox may be FBI?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I replied.
“And the leg cuffs?” Isla asked. “Did you see if they were stamped too?”
“She had the longer chain ones on,” I said. “But she was supposed to wear shorter ones, at least when it was official. I don’t think the ones she had on were the same as the ones she had to wear.”
Isla paused, thinking it over. “If those leg cuffs were stamped too ... maybe the Prescotts pieced together a full set—from somewhere or someone.”
I could see Isla working through it all, trying to connect the dots, trying to make sense of how this strange situation with Becca fit together. She wasn’t just curious. She was troubled by it.
“I didn’t look,” I admitted. “I only noticed the handcuffs because Becca would gesture with her hands when she talked. Or at least, she tried to. That’s when I saw the numbers.”
“So, you don’t know if the leg cuffs weren’t stamped?” she asked. “Not FBI-issued?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But even if they were, it’s possible the Prescotts picked them up somewhere. Maybe from one of those estate sales we sometimes stop at on the way back from the flea market.”
Isla frowned. “But I thought you said you can’t just get those—at least not the stamped ones. Didn’t you say the prison kept boxes of them locked away? Policy or something?”
“We were pulling tables out of a storage room, and there were some boxes of cuffs just sitting on the ground,” I explained. “We had to move them to get to the tables.” I paused. “I don’t know if they were there because they can’t get rid of them or what. I just assumed it’s some kind of rule,” I said, then shrugged. “But I don’t know for sure.” I gave her a tired smile. “We were trying to get the class set up—it’s not exactly the kind of thing you casually ask about.”
“You’re there tomorrow too, right?” she asked. “You said you’d be there all week since all the guards need certification?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “I’ll be up there through Friday.”
She shrugged. “Maybe you could ask? Just casually, you know? Maybe you’ll find out if they actually get rid of old cuffs—and if they somehow end up being sold. That might explain the set your friend saw Becca in. And why they looked like the ones she used to wear. Maybe the Prescotts just picked up another set somewhere.”
“Ask casually?” I repeated, looking at her. “You’re the actor. You’re the one who can do that kind of thing. You’re good at the impromptu stuff—you can think on your feet and improvise fast. I can’t. I’m just going to screw it all up.”
Isla looked at me evenly. “You’ll be fine. You think on your feet constantly—you’re a paramedic. You’re used to situations changing in an instant. If anyone can improvise, it’s you.”
I held her gaze. “Is finding that out really that important to you?”
She shrugged. “Aren’t you curious?” she asked. “Your friend said the agents told Becca she didn’t have to wear them anymore—and then they took the cuffs, right? But now she’s back in the same ones? Or ones that look like the same ones?”
I nodded slowly. “Okay,” I said. “If the chance comes up tomorrow, and it doesn’t sound weird, I’ll ask.”
She leaned in and kissed me softly, and just like that, the conversation was over. At least until I got home the next day. As with the previous night, Isla was putting a quick meal together. The familiar scent of garlic and onions filled the air, grounding me in the simplicity of the moment after a long day.
I leaned against the counter, watching her move around the kitchen, humming softly to herself, the sound comforting, even if the thoughts swirling in my own head weren’t so calm.
“How was it today?” she asked without turning around, her focus on the stove.
She then turned to me and held up a noodle to my mouth.
“Good,” I said, leaning back slightly.
As I washed my hands, she stirred the sauce, mixing in the last of the ingredients for the pasta. “Did you ask?” she said casually, though I could hear the anticipation in her voice.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“What did they say?” she asked, glancing at me.
“I did like you said,” I began. “I told them we could use another table, and they let me into the storage room. The female guard—she’s the one assigned to the training, I think—stood by while I moved some of the boxes to get to the table.”
“The boxes with the cuffs?” Isla asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. So, I made a comment—asked if they were in there because they weren’t using them anymore.”
“Okay, good,” she said quickly. “And what did she say?”
“She nodded and said they hadn’t been used since the eighties. Something like that.”
Isla tilted her head. “Wait, that long?”
“Yeah. That’s what she said.”
“So, then what?” Isla asked. “You asked why they still have them? Right?”
I pulled two large bowls from the cupboard. She looked at me, waiting for my answer.
“I did,” I said. “Asked why they don’t just get rid of them.”
She nodded, watching me closely now. “And?”
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