The Lives
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 8: The Sister
“I really don’t want to go to this,” I told her.
“I know,” she said gently. “But you’re still going. He was your grandfather. And he took care of us.”
She glanced over at me. “How do you think we paid for that college education of yours?”
I sighed and looked out the window.
“Did you hear back from that place? The one you interviewed with?” she asked. Mom was changing the topic. She didn’t want to talk about grandpa as much as I did.
“Yeah,” I said. “I got it. I start next week.”
Her face lit up. “That’s great! My little boy’s all grown up.”
“Ma,” I said, giving her a look.
She smiled. “You’ll always be my little boy.”
I nodded and turned back to the window.
“Bobby,” she said more quietly.
I knew that tone. The serious one. The one that meant she was about to bring up something I didn’t want to talk about.
“You need to let things go with her. It’s been months.”
“I did, Ma.”
“I’m not talking about Chloe, and you know that. That girl was ... is a mess. How many times did she break up with you? You were just a trophy to her—an accomplishment. Like those ridiculous cheerleading trophies, she collected.”
She stared straight ahead. “A lot of good those will do her now,” she muttered.
That got my attention, but I didn’t turn.
“We’re lucky,” she went on. “Lucky we didn’t get wrapped up in all that. That we had enough sense to stay out of it.” She paused. “If we hadn’t ... your father might be looking at prison right now.”
“We had Grandpa,” I said. “We didn’t need to do those things to make money.”
She let out a slow breath. “I like Chloe. I really do. But everything around her...” She shook her head, already changing the subject. “The chains. Your dad said he saw her at the prison once—dressed up and fully restrained. She was in holding. At first he thought she was being processed, but then he realized she wasn’t on any of the paperwork. Later he found out she’d been at the courthouse like that, too.”
She glanced over at me. “And the hospital. That van she was in—it was transporting an inmate there.”
I stared straight ahead. Talking about the restraints made me uncomfortable—not something you discuss up with your mom.
Honey,” she said softly, “it’s okay if you’re into ... whatever that was. That’s not what I’m worried about.” She looked straight ahead. “It’s okay if you like your girls that way.”
I fidgeted in my seat, wishing I could disappear. This was exactly what I didn’t want.
“You gave it a try with Chloe,” she continued. “You really did. You kept going back to her—kept trying to help her. To be everything she wanted you to be. You even went out with her when she started wearing chains, too.”
She glanced over at me, eyebrows lifting slightly. “I know, honey. People talk in this town. At first, I thought it was one of those other women. But then they started saying the cheerleader was into it now, too.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile. “Anyway, I figured it out. Not like she was trying to hide it. I knew she was wearing them for you.”
“I didn’t ask her to,” I replied immediately.
She reached over and touched my hand. “I know. I figured it was just jealousy, seeing you with that other girl. But ... it wasn’t meant to be,” she said, pausing. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And she was kind of a bitch.”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed a little.
She put her hand back on the wheel and turned onto the street, slowing as she scanned the line of parked cars.
“We’ll have to walk,” she said. “Looks like your grandfather was loved.”
I looked over at her, side-eyeing. He had money I thought to myself. That wasn’t love. Not even close.
She parked and turned toward me.
“I’m not upset about the bondage stuff,” she said. “I love you, and if that’s what you like, then it’s okay.” She sighed. “What I’m unhappy about is how Chloe treated you.”
Her shoulders slumped. “And all the shit she was involved in didn’t help. She would have eventually dragged you into it, and I know she tried.”
I nodded slowly.
“The fraud wasn’t even the worst of it. She lied to the police about those two girls—and they’ve never hurt anyone. They’re a little odd, sure ... especially the younger one, but they’re good girls. God knows they had to grow up fast.”
She reached over and cupped my cheek.
“And I know you were probably the only one in that group who actually talked to them,” she added, her voice softening.
She sighed again, softer this time. “You could call her, you know.”
I shook my head. “I really messed up with her,” I said. “Instead of being her friend—being there when she needed someone, when everything was happening with her sister because of Megan—I just ... helped Chloe instead. Just made it worse.”
I looked away for a second. “And ... she’s with someone now. Even if I wanted to...” I trailed off.
“Oh?”
“From high school. Remember Andrew?”
She smiled. “Big guy, right? Worked with his dad downtown? He and Susan were always together when they were kids?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s him. She’s with him now.”
She gave a small shrug. “Well ... you have to admit, they kind of make sense. They were always two peas in a pod.”
I nodded.
She grabbed her purse, and we stepped out into the cold. She slipped her arm through mine as we started walking.
“Brr,” she said, shivering.
I took off my coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Why didn’t you bring one?”
She grinned. “And cover up this body? Do you know how hard I worked to lose the weight?”
“I know, Ma.”
She smirked. “Your dad seems to appreciate it. He can’t keep his hands off me.”
I closed my eyes again. “Just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean we need to have those conversations.”
She laughed as we walked toward the house, her grip tightening slightly around my arm.
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
And then, quietly, she said, “You’re going to be okay, Bobby.”
I didn’t answer right away.
But I didn’t pull away, either.
We were almost to the house when a van pulled up to the curb, cutting through the stillness.
It idled there for a second.
An officer stepped out from the front of the van and moved to the side, opening the door.
There was a brief pause—just long enough for the sounds of shifting metal and quiet instructions from inside.
Then a woman emerged.
She was dressed appropriately—a simple black dress, fitted and modest, the kind you’d wear to a wake. Though it was clearly designed to show off a little leg. She wore sheer black hose, which did just that.
And black patent stilettos, high and sharp, maybe four inches. Not as high as Susan’s, not like the ones I’d seen her wear—or the ones Chloe wore with the restraints those few times, for me. Not quite. But still high.
I closed my eyes for a second. I needed to stop doing that.
When I looked again, the pearls caught my eye first. A single strand, neat against her collarbone, standing out against the black of her outfit.
Then the restraints.
They weren’t subtle. Metal at her wrists, held close in front of her. A chain at her waist. Another at her ankles, short enough to force slow, careful steps. A black box over the cuffs. And then a chain that ran down to the leg cuffs.
The full set. The same kind Susan used to wear. The same kind Chloe had worn—before everything fell apart. For the last time, anyway.
Before wearing them stopped being something optional for her. For at least the next year. Maybe more.
The officer stepped down from the van and steadied her, one hand firm on her arm. A small set of folding steps clanged into place, and the woman descended carefully, heel by heel, the chain at her ankles dictating every movement.
Others heading toward the house, like us, had slowed, then stopped. They’d noticed too. Honestly, it was hard not to. It was kind of a spectacle.
So, unsurprising, conversations died down. We all stared openly—some out of curiosity, most with visible discomfort. And then there were the few who seemed ... quietly amused.
But the officer didn’t react to us just standing there. In fact, it was like we weren’t even there. She raised the steps and shut the van door with a solid push, while keeping her grip on the woman’s arm, and guided her toward the house.
Up the steps. Slow. Controlled.
And inside.
We followed behind with others.
In the house, we greeted family—cousins and other relatives we hadn’t seen in years.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman being led, the officer still holding her by the arm. A man and a woman walked up to them—maybe her parents.
It was hard to tell, but it seemed that way. Her dad reached toward her, but the guard held him back. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to touch her. I didn’t know.
Conversations were happening all around us so it was impossible to focus on any one. Mom talking to someone, laughter, questions, but I wasn’t really listening.
I was watching her. Watching the careful way she moved in the restraints, the black dress, the pearls. Even with everyone walking past, in front of me, all I could see was her.
“Bobby,” I then heard mom say.
“You remember Judith,” she continued as I turned my head toward her. “She was asking about your degree. Computers or something.”
“Hi,” I said. I didn’t really remember her—I didn’t recognize most of the people in the house. “Computer Science,” I added.
“Wow,” Judith replied. “Sounds ... hard.”
I nodded, and mom jumped in. “He already has a job lined up. He starts this month.”
“Wow,” Judith said again. “If I could only get my own kids to be like him,” she said, glancing at mom.
I let my gaze drift around the room—but the woman in restraints was gone. It was a big house. Money. Again, something my grandfather had a lot of.
He’d been an architect, or at least had been. Back in the day, he studied under Frank Gehry—worked with him in the late ‘70s, learning from those experimental houses that were shaking up the architecture world. Apparently, it helped him land a lot of work. Wealthy clients.
I’d looked him up once, just out of curiosity, since mom was always mentioning him—even though he wasn’t her father, just her stepfather, and her mom had divorced him.
Anyway, it was strange seeing him in textbooks—old black-and-white photos, young and full of energy, standing next to Gehry. Like he wasn’t my grandfather at all, but some famous historical figure.
I don’t know how many people we talked to after Judith, or how many times mom bragged that I’d recently graduated and was starting a job—though she conveniently left out that I’d finished a year ago and already been laid off from two places. But eventually, things quieted.
Conversations slowed, and we found ourselves standing around, holding plastic cups of wine and sampling food from similar colored plastic trays.
“She’s pretty,” mom said.
I looked at her, not fully understanding, but then it hit me. Who she was talking about.
“The chained-up beauty,” she then added, gently lifting her chin into the crowd. But I’d already seen her.
It was the girl—the one who’d been brought in in restraints—standing there across the room. The officer was nearby, helping herself to food, completely unconcerned.
“She’s by herself,” mom said, nodding toward her again. “She was talking to that older couple for a while. Probably her parents. But they’ve wandered off.” She looked over. “And it seems that officer isn’t worried she’ll run off.”
She glanced up at me. “You should go talk to her.” She shrugged. “She doesn’t seem like a murderer or anything. Maybe she just got into a little trouble—white-collar stuff, probably. Wrote a bad check.”
I chuckled. “I don’t think anyone writes checks anymore.” Then I caught myself. “Well ... maybe you and Dad.”
But she didn’t miss a beat. “And look at her, moving around the house just fine in those. Like they’re no big deal. She seems really comfortable that way. Maybe she’s had practice in them, beyond her current predicament.”
I shifted, uncomfortable, trying not to meet her eyes. Mom was trying so hard, the warmth in her voice unmistakable, but I could feel every inch of awkward tension stretching between us. I wanted to shrink into myself, to pretend I hadn’t heard.
And then she did it. Mom looked over at me and started walking toward the table—right where the girl was standing. I caught that look she gives me sometimes. The one that says, go on. I sighed and followed.
She set her wine cup down and began piling a few items onto a small plate she had no intention of eating—not after all the hard work she’d gone through to lose all those pounds.
She then looked over at the girl. “Hi,” she said with a nod.
The girl nodded and said hi back. I gave her a small, awkward smile.
Mom stacked a few more things on the plate. “Your grandfather would be appalled that they’re serving pigs in a blanket,” she said, shaking her head. “The man designed restaurants for gourmet chefs, you know. And you’ve seen the kitchen in this place.”
The girl chuckled softly, and I could feel my chest tighten, wishing the ground would swallow me up.
Mom then turned to me with a little sigh and another shake of her head. “There’s your aunt,” she said, not sounding happy. Then she let out a long exhale. “Guess I should go say hello to my ... bitch of a half-sister. Hopefully the others aren’t here and she’s the only one I need to tolerate tonight.”
I groaned quietly. “Ma, please don’t pick a fight with Aunt Dorothy. Not here,” I muttered—but she’d already started walking, making my way toward her.
I just closed my eyes.
“Family,” I heard the girl say.
I nodded. “Yeah,” I replied quietly.
“Don’t feel bad,” she continued, pointing with her cuffed hands. “My stepmom over there—she’s been telling everyone that my dad studied under your grandfather, and that the DeMoinns house was really my dad’s idea.”
I chuckled and muttered under my breath, more to myself than to her, “Hmm ... your dad looks like he’s in his fifties, right?”
“51,” she replied.
I did the math in my head. “So ... he was ten when he gave my grandfather the idea for the house?”
She laughed. “My dad was a visionary—even building those Play-Doh houses.”
I chuckled.
“So, is that the connection?” I then asked. “Your Dad and my grandfather worked together?”
She nodded. “Early on, from what I understand. He kind of gave my dad a chance, and my dad worked really hard for him. That’s what he told us growing up.”
I knew what that meant—working hard. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
She smiled. “Uh, yeah ... your grandfather was kind of a prick.”
“Kind of?” I said.
As we both laughed, I finally introduced myself. “Bobby,” I said.
“Fawna,” she replied, smiling.
“I’d shake your hand, but that officer over there,” she nodded toward the side of the room, “has it so I can’t.”
“I noticed,” I said nodding slowly. “But you look fantastic. They look amazing with that outfit.”
She chuckled.
“You mean this little black dress ... and these designer four-and-a-half-inch open-toe stilettos?” she said, a hint of a Southern lilt in her voice. “What else would a girl wear to a wake? It’s the perfect little outfit to pick up guys.”
“Like him. Over there,” she said.
“That’s my cousin Darryl,” I told her. “Pretty sure he’s going to be a priest—or a bus driver. Honestly, it’s a close call.”
She laughed.
“And even if you’re into the chiseled school bus driver look, he still won’t be into you,” I added with a grin.
“Is he gay?” she asked. “Oh ... the priest option. They can’t marry, right.”
“Not that. He’s got a foot fetish. Likes women with large feet.” I glanced down. “Seven and a half?”
She smiled. “Very good. You know feet.”
I grinned. She was funny. “Yeah ... those won’t work,” I said in a mock-dismissive tone. “You’d need to be at least a ten, and even then, you’d still be considered ... petite.”
She opened her eyes wide. “Okay ... Good to know.”
“A priest with a foot fetish?” she then asked as if she thought I had been joking.
“Or a bus driver,” I said. “You have to be careful at these kinds of events.”
She smiled. “What about him?” she asked, pointing. “The one with the pornstache?”
“Alan,” I replied. “Father’s side. Security guard. Tried to be a cop but couldn’t pass the physical or written exams.”
“Right,” she said. “Okay. And him?”
“Stephan,” I replied.
“So, what’s his story?”
“Nothing, really,” I said. “Except ... his name was Stephanie. He legally changed it last year after the surgery.”
“Oh,” she said. “Kind of a dealbreaker—want kids someday.”
“He also likes men,” I added. “He’s gay now.”
“Okay. Yeah. I can see how that might happen.”
“So,” I nodded with an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’m afraid you got dressed up for nothing.’
“Oh, this wasn’t my doing,” she replied. “This is all my stepmom over there, Katherine.”
She looked at me. “One of the officers brought these clothes earlier and told me to put them on.” She sighed. “A chance to wear real clothes instead of those oversized, one-size-fits-all jumpsuits ... and I end up in this.”
I chuckled, smiling. She was so easy to talk to.
“But it’s just how she dresses. As you can see,” she said, pointing—well, trying to point—toward her stepmom’s feet, “she’s in five-inch come-and-fuck-me heels. Because that’s appropriate for a somber event like this ... the kind of heels you wear when you want to be fucked.”
“She’s nice and all,” she insisted, “but definitely what you’d call a trophy wife.”
“Well, like I said,” she added, putting the emphasis back on her, “you look great.”
“Thanks,” she replied with a smile. “And I don’t have to worry about anyone wanting to—well, nothing screams psycho at a wake like an outfit like this and max-security prison transport restraints. Oh, and a prison guard hovering around, that’s a great deterrent too.”
“I think the officer over there would tackle them too,” I said.
“You saw that?” she asked.
“Yeah. I guess there’s no touching?”
“No,” she said, the word snapping a little. “That’s a rule they don’t bend. Not for anyone.” Her jaw tightened. “Even when my parents come to see me at the prison, they don’t even let me meet them like a person. I’m brought out like this—these chains, and the leg cuff chain is attached to the floor under my chair.”
She let out a short, bitter breath. “No reaching across the table. No contact. Nothing.” Her eyes hardened. “They think I’ll get slipped a key. Or a blade. Like I’m just waiting for the chance to cut my way out.”
She then turned around slightly before facing me again. “Red padlock, right?” she asked.
I nodded.
“High security,” she added. “Even if I got a cuff key, I couldn’t reach the keyholes in this box—and the padlock would have to come off first to get the box off.”
She slid her hands along the waist chain as she spoke, the metal rasping softly. The movement brought her wrists just close enough to brush my arm. Light. Fleeting. Easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.
“Right,” I said. “Serious stuff.”
“Yeah,” she said, voice flat. “It really hits you once you’re inside. Max security, especially.” She gave a short tug on the cuffs, the chain biting faintly. “You’re restrained all the time—not just for transport. Any time you’re out of your cell, you’re in irons.”
Her mouth twisted. “When I’m not locked in, I’m like this.” Another sharp pull for emphasis. “It’s nothing like the movies—no inmates wandering around like it’s some kind of resort. Not where I am, anyway.”
I nodded slowly, trying not to stare too much. “Sounds ... intense.”
She gave a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. That took some getting used to. I just remember the first time they all went on—right after the case, when the judge accepted the plea. Two officers just walked up behind me, and as soon as the judge was done, they put me in all of it.”
“Been in these things ever since,” she said, sighing. “But you get used to them—or at least you survive. Three more months. That’s what I keep telling myself.”
“That’s when your sentence ends?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she replied. I could see her thinking it through. “Three more months ... I can do that. Then I’ll be eligible for parole. Good behavior.” She looked at me. “You know, the overcrowding thing ... that’s how I ended up in a max prison. No room anywhere else. And since my sentence was six months, they just put me there—separate area, for less dangerous inmates of course.”
I nodded. “That sounds rough.”
She gave a bitter little laugh. “The pathetic thing is ... I’m the one sitting in a cell and wearing these at a wake, while my sister—the one who orchestrated all of this—is still free. With her attorneys, or ... I guess I should say my parents’ attorneys, trying to get her off.”
“It took a ton of paperwork just for me to even be here,” she said, her voice tightening. “And honestly ... my parents only went through it because I’ve been locked up for three months, and they think I’m going to lose my shit.”
She let out a shaky breath, her gaze dropping. “The last visit didn’t go well. I just ... started crying. I couldn’t hold it back anymore. It all just came out at once.”
Her fingers curled slightly, like she was bracing against something unseen. “And it’s not like your grandfather was family to me. So yeah ... there was a lot of convincing to get me here.”
She looked at me.
“Sorry,” she said softly. “I’m really sorry for your loss.”
I nodded, but the truth was I didn’t want to be here either. As she had said, my grandfather was a prick.
“And the part that really sucks...” she muttered, more to herself than to me, her voice thinning, “is that she’s not even here.”
She swallowed hard, blinking like she was trying to hold something back. “She’s never come to the prison. Not once. I haven’t seen her since the sentencing.”
Her jaw tightened, words coming out quieter, heavier. “My parents just ... talk about her case. What the attorneys are doing. Like that’s supposed to mean something to me after everything. I feel like their more worried about her than me and I’m the one who’s stuck in a cell.”
She shifted slightly, the cuffs pressing against her wrists as she tried to adjust them. Her shoulders tensed, and she let out a quiet sigh, the weight of it all settling on her.
She glanced at me, then looked down at her hands. “She ... um, was involved in some stuff at college. Someone got hurt, and then she tried to shift the blame. Lied to me, and I believed her. And I ... ended up attacking people who shouldn’t have been attacked.”
She paused, shaking her head, tugging gently at the cuffs, trying to get comfortable. “Not violently or anything ... but I filed complaints, wanted to press charges, and one of the people I implicated had friends in higher places. At least, that’s what makes sense. The rest ... it’s all my sister’s mess.”
Another pause. Her gaze flicked to the floor. “And I pleaded. I didn’t want to spend two-plus years in prison if I lost, so I took six months.”
She let out a slow breath, the cuffs clinking softly as she shifted again. “Could be out in five. And my record gets cleaned up. Guess ... they just wanted me to spend some time. Pay for it somehow. For lying to authorities, as they called it.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her.
“Not like it’s your fault,” she replied. She let out a long sigh. “I guess I’m just ... hurt. My sister—that she lied. Dragged me into it all. Made me a part of it.”
“But,” she said, eyes wide—the kind of wide you make to stop tears from falling—”it is what it is. You live, you learn.” She chuckled softly. “Something my dad always says.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Feels like a lot of learning as of late, though.”
She nodded back at me, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips.
“The funny thing is ... my sister’s the one into this stuff.”
I looked at her.
“Yeah,” she said seeing my reaction while trying to lift her wrists slightly. “She’s into being restrained. Even collared.”
I nodded. “She’s ... into bondage?”
“Yeah,” she replied again. “I mean, I always knew, but when she went away for college ... that’s when it really came out. There was no guessing anymore. Not—not with everything that happened.”
I just kept nodding, listening.
“The first time I saw her tied up ... I mean really tied up—she was in these things,” she continued. “Just like this,” she said, gesturing to her restraints. “But with thumb cuffs, too.”
“And she was dressed...” She shook her head slightly, as if replaying the image. “Not anything slutty. Well—it was professional, but nothing I’d wear to an office.”
“Anyway,” she added, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips, “if she ever gets convicted, she’ll love these.” She motioned toward the cuffs and restraints. “No collar—she’ll have to wait until she gets out—but she’ll get all the cuffs and transport restraints she could ever want.”
She sighed. “That’s for sure.”
I smiled back, watching her.
“You didn’t think you’re the only one with oddities in your family, did you?” she asked, smiling back at me.
“Although,” she said, “I have to admit—you’ve got me beat with the whole school-bus-driving priest-with-a-foot-fetish thing.”
I laughed.
“I don’t know ... a sister into bondage,” I added. “That’s a good one. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I quickly corrected myself. “But I think it beats pornstache Alan.”
She laughed.
“Anyone else into it?” I asked, trying—badly—to sound casual. Not that it mattered. It was painfully obvious what I was really asking: whether she was into it. Whether all this was just circumstance ... or something more.
At least it was for me.
“The bondage?” she said, arching an eyebrow.
I nodded, smiling like I wasn’t completely giving myself away. But I couldn’t help myself.
“Hmm.” She tilted her head, thinking it over. “Maybe Kat—my stepmom. I think she’d be into that.” She nodded slowly, as if convincing herself. “Actually, yeah. And I’m pretty sure my dad would be into it too.”
“Oh. Wow.” I raised my eyebrows.
“You saw those heels she was wearing,” she went on. “You think she puts those on for fun? And that dress...” She smirked. “I did say she’s a trophy wife.”
“I mean, I don’t think she’d ever wear stuff for him out in public,” she added. “I don’t think you’d ever see her in stuff like this ... but behind closed doors?” She gave a small shrug. “Yeah. I could see her letting him tie her up. Doing the naughty prisoner thing in the bedroom. Maybe in the house when it’s only them.”
“Wow,” I repeated.
“You asked,” she shot back, grinning.
“Okay, okay. Fair enough.”
She chuckled.
“That just leaves you,” I said, hesitating. “Unless you’ve got any other siblings.”
I should’ve let it go—but I didn’t. I couldn’t help myself.
“Me?” she asked. “Bondage?” She paused, raising an eyebrow.
I nodded.
“These ... SUCK,” she said, holding out her hands and lifting them slightly, testing the cuffs. Then she raised one heel, angling her foot to show the restraints on her legs. “They’ve got me in short chains. Short chains.” She glanced down at them. “Like I’m going to make a break for it.”
“And even if I did,” she went on, a note of sarcasm creeping in, “say I had the longer ones on—where I could walk somewhat normally?” She gave a small, incredulous laugh. “Like this doesn’t attract attention.”
She scanned the room, then looked back at me. “At least a third of the people here have been staring at me while we’ve been talking.”
I smiled at her. “So ... no guy to wear them for?”
She snorted lightly. “You mean someone on the outside waiting for me who shows up just because he likes seeing me chained up—and knows that’s exactly how I’ll be?”
I glanced over at her.
“What?” she said. “I’ve been locked up for three months—you don’t think I’ve learned a few things?” She tried to keep it light, but there was an edge to it now.
“Some of the other women...” She trailed off, her expression shifting. “They’ve got guys. And they talk about it—how these dudes have bondage fetishes, how seeing them fully restrained during visits just...” She made a small, dismissive motion with her hand. “It’s a turn on I guess.”
I didn’t say anything.
“And then there’s this understanding,” she went on, quieter now. “That when they get out ... they’ll probably have to keep playing into that. Wearing restraints, going along with it—for them.” She let out a slow breath. “Because what else are they supposed to do?”
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