The Practitioner
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 7: A Neat Little Bow
Sophie’s eyes landed on the cuffs, and something in her face shifted. She definitely recognized them.
“I’ve seen those before,” she said. “Not those exact ones, but ... yeah. Same kind.”
She let out a breath. “They used them back when Steve’s dad was sheriff. Steve had a pair just like that—said his dad got them from the prison.”
She gave Isla a knowing look. “Yeah, that officer wasn’t lying. Those things are cut-proof, escape-proof ... basically impossible to get out of. The locks are custom—each pair had two keys. One was carried by the guard when the inmate was being moved, and the other was locked away somewhere safe. That’s what Steve’s dad told him, anyway.”
Her gaze shifted between us. “Pretty sure that was his way of telling Steve not to lose the keys. Especially when I was the one wearing them.”
After she said that, I think she realized we must’ve just been staring at her. That’s when she paused for a moment and gave a little shrug. “Yeah ... it’s a long story. Steve and I dated way back.”
Then she cleared her throat and moved on. “Anyway, the point is, you couldn’t just go make a copy. Those keys were locked down—strictly for prison use. Everything was tightly controlled.”
“What does that mean?” Isla asked. “That they were uniquely keyed?”
It means no single key fits more than one set,” Sophie explained. “Each pair of cuffs had a number, and each key was engraved with the matching number. You said the officer who put you in those cuffs had keys for the handcuffs, leg cuffs, and the padlock—all on the same ring? Then they were already matched. That would’ve been a full set. It means those keys were paired with everything that inmate was restrained with. But somewhere, locked away, there’s another ring just like it—a duplicate set of keys.
“She made it sound like she just grabbed a bunch,” I said. “Like they had plenty lying around.”
“Maybe they did,” Sophie said with a little shrug. “Could’ve had duplicates made over the years. So yeah, she might’ve been telling the truth—maybe they had multiple sets for each pair of cuffs, and she just matched the keys to whatever ones she gave you.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I can only tell you what Steve’s dad said.”
Then, almost without thinking, she added, “That’s why I always made sure Steve could open the cuffs. Otherwise, no way was I letting him put them on me. The last thing I wanted was to end up stuck, hands cuffed over my head to the bed.”
She stopped, looking at both of us like she’d just realized what she said. There was an awkward moment before she cleared her throat again and moved on. “Honestly, I’m surprised they even had any left. That was years ago. I figured the guards just took them home—you know, for their wives or girlfriends.”
“There were still a lot of them,” I told her. “Boxes of them.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I guess. With the prison system being as big as it is, that makes sense. Other prisons probably have them too ... just sitting around.”
Her expression sobered again. “Either way, uniquely keyed or not, you need the keys for those cuffs. Without them ... you’re not getting out. Not unless you’ve got serious tools and someone who knows what they’re doing.”
Sophie stepped closer and gently rested her hands on Isla’s shoulders, guiding her to turn around. She studied the restraints for a moment.
“Yeah,” she said, turning Isla back to face her. “That chain would have to be cut. No way you’re getting through that lock—it’s solid. And even then, best-case scenario? You get the lockbox off. But you’d still have to cut through the chains on the handcuffs ... and the leg cuffs, too. And even then? You’d still be wearing the cuffs themselves. Like some kind of heavy jewelry. Until you can find the actual keys.”
“These are hinged cuffs ... under the box,” Isla said, lifting her hands as far as the restraints would let her. “I was in the chained ones before, but the officer swapped them out—just to show the difference. Then she left me in these.”
Sophie nodded to herself. “Hinged? Okay ... they’d have to cut through the casing, same as the padlock. So, even if you got the outer box off, you’d still be stuck in the cuffs. No getting out without the keys.”
She stepped back, giving Isla a quick once-over. “Yeah ... that officer wasn’t playing around. And with those leg cuffs? Especially the short-chain kind—she was making sure you were properly restrained for transport. Like she didn’t want to take any chances. She wanted to be absolutely sure you weren’t going to be a problem.”
“These are the longer ones,” Isla said, glancing down. “The ones she had me try on before these? They were way shorter. Like, maybe six inches.”
Sophie’s brows lifted slightly. “Six inches?” She paused, then continued, “Yeah, Becca has a pair like that. It’s not exactly like the ones you’re wearing; it’s more standard-issue but with a six-inch chain. She had to wear them when...”
She trailed off for a moment, her expression flickering. “Anyway, Becca eventually figured out how to walk in them ... didn’t really have a choice.” She glanced at Isla and gave a small, almost sympathetic smile. “So, good thing you didn’t end up in those. You’d only be able to hobble at best.”
Sophie’s tone shifted slightly, a mix of understanding and discomfort. “But they’re humiliating. Especially in public. People ... they stare. And if you’re not used to being in restraints, it’s awful. You want to move faster and get away from all the eyes on you, but you can’t. You’re stuck, taking these tiny little steps, and all you can feel is everyone watching. You can see it in their faces—the way they look at you, like they’re judging you. Like they enjoy seeing you forced to take those humiliating, minuscule steps just to move.”
She looked back at Isla, her voice a little more serious now. “Anyway, yeah, they’re not fun. So, it’s a good thing you didn’t end up in the shorter ones. But you’re not getting out of those restraints without the keys. So yeah—we’ll figure that out.”
Then she blinked and gave Isla a slightly different look, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. “But first things first ... when’s your audition?”
“We didn’t know how long it would take to get here, or if you’d be able to help us. So, Isla managed to get the last slot they had,” I said, glancing at my phone. “She has to be there in about an hour.”
Isla had texted Charlie while we were still at the apartment, asking what the last possible opening was for today. We’d already spoken with Sophie, but we had no idea how things would go once we got to the museum. Sophie had asked us to meet her here, so we parked in the back lot, the one reserved for staff, let her know we’d arrived, and she let us in through one of the back doors.
Sophie nodded. “Okay, that gives us time.”
“We’re really grateful,” I told her. “Thank you again for helping us. We remember you mentioned at dinner that you and Becca are usually only at the museum on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We really appreciate you coming in today.”
“Not a problem,” she replied. “Plus, I was already here. We’re at a wedding tomorrow, so I came in to make sure everything’s good. We won’t be able to come in tomorrow if there are any issues. So, really, it’s no big deal.”
She looked at me, her expression thoughtful.
“When you explained everything that happened ... how could I say no? After seeing firsthand how some people in this town can be—people I’ve known my whole life—I couldn’t just turn my back on you. I had to help.”
“Thanks,” Isla said.
Sophie nodded, then glanced at her phone. “Okay, we’ve got enough time to do what we need to before I drive you both over to the studio park.”
“What?” Isla asked, clearly confused. “We’re doing something before we go?” She looked at Sophie, not sure what she meant.
“Uh, yeah,” Sophie began. “Um ... Okay. After we talked and you guys were on your way here, I called the sheriff’s department ... and spoke to Steve.”
She looked at Isla, hesitating. Her eyes flicked toward the floor, then back up.
“I know you just want to get out of those cuffs,” she said quietly. “And you’re hoping that officer will hand over the keys and this’ll all just ... quietly go away.”
She exhaled, a small shake of her head. “But when Noah told me she entered you into the system as an inmate—and flagged you as high risk—that set off alarms.”
Sophie paused again, nodding. “Okay ... yeah ... he said she marked you as a ‘temporary subject,’ like a reporter doing a story or something. But...” She trailed off, brow furrowing. “It didn’t sit right with me. Not after he mentioned she told you it usually takes months of paperwork to get something like that approved. And especially after he told me she was panicked about you speaking to the authorities about what happened ... and that you were supposed to lay low until she could fix things on her end.”
She then added, “So I called Steve, told him everything Noah told me, and asked him to look into it.”
“And?” Isla asked, her voice tense.
She didn’t sound happy about it, but I could tell she understood why Sophie had done it. She knew what Sophie was saying made sense ... even if the whole situation didn’t.
“What did he find out?” she asked again, quieter this time.
“He called me back just before you got here,” Sophie said. “And according to the New York Department of Corrections, you’ve been classified as an escapee from lawful custody.”
She paused, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. She could tell we were waiting, expecting more of an explanation.
“Okay ... I’m going to try to explain this the way Steve did to me. After we talked, he ran a query through the state corrections database. He said he checked the inmate movement logs and active BOLOs. I don’t know what that stands for, but it has something to do with escaped or missing prisoners. And sure enough, a hit came back. There was an active record for someone with your name and description.”
“Already?” I asked. “It—it sounded like it would take a while. This just happened this morning.”
She looked at me and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Then she turned to Isla. “It listed you as having escaped from a temporary custody program.”
“What does that even mean? ‘Temporary custody program’?” I asked. “The officer said she marked Isla as a ‘temporary subject’—like for journalists or something.
“Yeah,” Sophie nodded. “I told Steve what you told me on the phone, and he confirmed it—the system had you listed as a ‘temporary subject.’ Just like the officer said, that designation’s used for people like journalists. But it’s not easy to get. Steve said it usually takes a ton of paperwork and has to be approved by people pretty high up the chain.”
She looked between us. “Which lines up with what you told me—the officer saying it usually takes months to get something like that processed.”
“So, what’s the actual issue?” I asked.
Sophie let out a breath. “Steve said the query came back with you failing to report back into custody. That flags you as a ‘walkaway,’ which—at least on paper—is treated the same as an escape. And because you’re marked as high risk in the system, that bumps it up even more. So right now, you’re listed as a high-risk escapee, even though your record says you were part of a temporary custody program.”
Isla’s voice was shaky. “I don’t understand. What does that all mean?” she asked, glancing at me. “What did he say? Because the officer told us that once she could get back into the system, she’d just mark me as inactive or something. And to just not get pulled over or anything until then.”
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