Erin
by R. E. Bounds
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
BDSM Story: Cross and Myers chase the echo of a decade-old case, their partnership defined by tension, fatigue, and a grudging respect. As new leads surface—drawing them through a fetish club, a prison, and the Bureau’s own labyrinthine bureaucracy—the agents confront the limits of authority and the consuming need for closure. A story best experienced following The Practitioner - Chapter 26: Ready to Stop Fighting.
Tags: Fiction Crime Mystery BDSM DomSub FemaleDom Humiliation White Female AI Generated
*Tuesday, April 1 — 2:36 PM
FBI Field Office, Philadelphia*
“Convenience store footage. Murder case. Upstate New York. 2013,” I told her. “Look closely—what do you see?”
“A Domme, maybe ... or at least she’s dressed like one,” she said, leaning in as she studied the distorted footage. “She’s walking down a hallway ... with what looks like a store clerk?”
She shrugged, offering her best guess.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
She looked over. “Which ones the victim?”
“The clerk,” I said, then continued. “Twenty years old. Tracy Stevens. Worked part-time—her dad owned the place. They found her in the dumpster behind the store, south side.”
“Now look at this,” I said, pulling a photo from the case file.
It was a still frame from the footage—grainy from being blown up. It showed the Domme standing outside, near the side of the building, the camera catching her from behind.
She took the photo and studied it.
“Is ... is she cuffed?”
“Yep,” I said, leaning back and folding my arms as I watched her face.
“Was she arrested?” She asked.
“Nope,” I replied. “So, riddle me this, Doc—what’s a convenience store clerk doing in the employee area of the store with a Domme ... who later walks out in handcuffs ... on the same day the clerk turns up dead?”
She looked at me.
“Batman reference,” I said, guessing the line went over her head.
“I got it.” She nodded.
“My dad used to talk about that show—watched it as a kid. He was always citing it. ‘Pow.’ ‘Wham.’ ‘Thwack.’”
She rolled her eyes. “I remember some movie he made me watch ... Batman was punching a shark on a ladder ... or something?” She shook her head, then added, “Anyway, really cutting-edge television.”
Then she smiled—polite on the surface, but she knew exactly what she was doing.
“No idea,” she muttered a moment later. “I take it you didn’t get a facial ID from the rest of the footage?”
“Nope.” I exhaled. “Killer ... or someone smashed the surveillance system.”
I shook my head. “This is all we’ve got—distorted footage and a grainy screengrab.”
“But ... forensics thinks that’s an index finger in the shot.” I pointed at the image as she leaned closer. “Right there. Could be someone just out of frame. The finger looks longer—might be a nail. So, maybe female.”
She studied it. “Hard to tell.”
“Yeah. No way to know. But it tracks—the Domme was cuffed behind her back. Someone had to do that. Doubt she cuffed herself, then muscled open a heavy door before stepping outside.”
“Kink thing, maybe?” she suggested. “She just cuffed herself.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “But why cuff yourself inside? Why not wait until you’re outside? Otherwise, you’re fighting a doorknob with your hands behind your back while trying to push it open.”
“And if she’s a Domme ... she’d be the one doing the cuffing. Thought those types called the shots.”
I shook my head, still convinced. “Yeah, I think someone cuffed her and then led her out.”
“BDSM dynamics are pretty flexible,” she explained. “It’s not a hard rule for every Domme or every scene. Did you send the grab to Behavioral?”
“Yep. I had you guys look at it.” I pulled another paper from the case file and showed it to her. “You guys think, based on her stance and how she was likely walking, she wasn’t happy.”
I looked at her. “If that’s true ... then the handcuffs weren’t her choice. Doubt she cuffed herself. Which means someone else did.”
“Could’ve been the clerk,” she said. “It ... could be her finger in the shot.”
She glanced up at me, then back down at the report. “Maybe they were having a session.”
“You said she worked there part-time, and her dad owned the place?” She shrugged. “Maybe she closed up while they were at it. She’d know the best time to lock up ... and that her dad wouldn’t just drop by.”
She set the findings on the table and looked at me. “You think the Domme’s the perpetrator?”
“Forensics says Stevens died later that day. This footage? It’s from hours before.”
But I knew what she was thinking.
“It crossed my mind, too.” I told her. “She might have come back.”
She lifted the report again, then set it back down. “If this is right ... maybe something happened between the two, and ... there was an altercation.”
I pulled another photo from the case file. “Autopsy photo,” I said. “Look at her nails.”
She took it from me. “Bright red.”
“Yep.” I nodded. “The photo’s grainy, but you’d think the red would show up—at least come through darker.”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “So that means ... someone else was there.”
I gave her a look. “Us old-school guys can be smart too—even without those three letters after our name.”
She raised her eyebrows at me dismissing my statement.
“Did IT go through the footage?” she asked. “See if the Domme’s clothes have any labels, logos—anything identifiable?”
“No tags,” I told her. “But it looks like real leather—could be custom.” I sighed. “We checked every tailor and leather shop in the area, even the surrounding counties. Came up empty.”
“Most likely made out of the country. You can find that kind of stuff cheaper overseas—even after shipping and customs,” she said.
“Yeah, thought the same. So impossible to track.”
“The only things they found were the cuffs,” I said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Not standard issue—or that’s what forensics thinks.” I tapped the photo. “They said the cuffs look custom, something about the lock placement being off. But the image is so low-res we can’t see much—just that she’s cuffed. Hard to say for sure. They look different ... though that could just be pixelation.”
“Most stick to standard gear—handcuffs, rope, leather restraints. They might get leather items from a local shop, but custom handcuffs?” She shook her head. “Those are rare, expensive, and not practical for regular sessions. Unless someone’s a serious collector or has very specific tastes, standard gear is the norm.”
“So, why dig up this cold case?” She finally asked. “Why are you showing me all this?”
I paused, then looked back at the footage.
“Stevens—her jaw was shattered before she was killed. Among other things...” I glanced at Myers. “It was personal. Whoever did this wanted her disfigured.”
“Any signs of a struggle? I’m assuming forensics checked for skin under her nails—the usual?”
“They did ... no usable DNA,” I said. “They said she barely fought—means she probably knew the attacker. By the time she realized what was happening, it was too late.”
Before she could revisit the idea that it might’ve been the Domme, I pulled another file and slid it across the table. “Carrie Wren.”
She took it, eyes on the photo clipped to the front—a woman’s face beaten, eyes swollen shut, stitches running from temple to jaw. Her skin was raw and bruised.
“Knocked out from behind, she was leaving her job late one night. Jaw broken,” I said.
“You think it’s connected?” she asked.
“Look,” I said, lifting Steven’s photo.
She held them side by side.
“Petite. Black hair with bangs. Same eye color. Freckles. They could be twins,” I said.
I tapped a close-up from Stevens’s autopsy. “See that bruise?” I pointed to the jaw. “Now look at Wren’s.”
She studied the photos.
“Same spot. Same trauma pattern. Same weapon,” I told her.
“But Wren survived,” she said. “If this is a serial, they don’t usually let victims walk away.”
“She got lucky,” I said. “A coworker was leaving shortly afterwards, saw her car door ajar, and walked in on it while it was happening—interrupting it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So, the coworker saw the attacker?”
“No.” I shook my head. “The assailant was covered—face and all. All she could tell us was he was small, maybe five-seven, thin. And that he was wearing a floral perfume. That’s it.”
“He shoved her down while bolting. Cracked a rib,” I said. “She called 911, stayed with Wren, did what she could to stop the bleeding. Probably saved her life.”
“They’re usually male,” she said, referring to serials and the note about the perfume. “This case screams typical male violence—domination, control, sadism. Women? It’s different. Revenge or money are more common motives. Think ‘Black Widow’ types—poisoners. A female...” She shook her head. “Wouldn’t have done something this brutal. Too messy.”
She leaned back. “Could’ve just been any small guy. They’re easy to overlook. High-functioning. Some have families. Double lives.”
I didn’t argue.
“Yeah, that was our read too,” I said.
“When did the Wren thing happen?” she asked.
“Last year.”
She hummed softly. “Not quite a ten-year gap,” she said quietly.
“I don’t think this is a serial,” she said, then looked at me. “It’s something else.”
She shook her head. “Not random. I agree. It was personal. Which means, if it’s the same person, these two women are connected.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I think so too. So does the assistant director.”
I watched her close her eyes for a moment, that slow recognition settling in.
“You’re on this ... Myers,” I said smiling. “It needs someone with your finesse.”
“Call me ‘Mistress Myers,’ Cross, and I will personally kick your ass at the next refresher. I don’t care how old you are—I’ll happily take the suspension,” she said without looking up.
I laughed. “Why do they call you that?”
She rolled her eyes. “I studied dominatrices for my dissertation. So—”
“Okay.” I pretended to be shocked, smiling. “I didn’t know they gave PhDs in dominatrices studies.”
I waited to see if I could get a rise out of her.
She shot me a side‑eye. “It’s in clinical psychology,” she said.
I nudged her. “Alright, alright—promise I won’t call you Mistress Myers.”
I said it out loud, savoring the moment—the only time I’d risk saying it without paying for it.
Then I went serious. “But this came from Callahan ... So, you’re on this.”
“Is that why you were asking about the Bounds case last week?” she asked.
Before I could answer, she continued.
“I never got what I wanted from Bounds. Reinhardt brought her back to New York—an unofficial transport—in September ... so I could observe her for something I’m working on.”
She raised her eyes—the way someone does when they’re annoyed. “I got pulled away before I could finish. Aside from a short interview that was being scrutinized ... I never got to ask the real questions.”
“And that’s why Callahan chose you,” I said. “Whatever you’re working on ... he thinks you’re right for this case.”
“So, this has been elevated to an active investigation?” she asked.
“Yep,” I said. “Got the director to sign off after he saw the photos—the doppelgängers and the matching trauma pattern.”
“And the fact that both cases involve Dommes?” he said. “Too much of a coincidence. I mean, why would a Domme even be at a convenience store in the first place?”
“They’re just people,” she replied. “Regular people. Same problems as everyone else.”
“Sure, I get that,” I shot back, holding up the photo. “But dressed like this—cuffed at a gas station on some random morning? Even if it was kinky shit ... same blunt-force trauma to the jaw, same bruising?”
“I thought you were retiring,” she said, her tone suggesting ‘Why are you doing this?’
I trailed off, letting out a slow sigh. “I met the father—Stevens. Only daughter.”
“He thought it was these two guys who’d been hanging around the store,” I said. “Harassing the female shoppers.”
“But that turned out to be a dead end,” I said, shaking my head. “We picked them up for questioning and realized one of them was wanted in connection with another case. Ended up doing time on a minor charge—Kenney Sims, yeah, that’s his name. Real piece of work. His dad’s some big-shot civil rights attorney.”
I leaned back. “Don’t know what happened to the other one. Guess it doesn’t matter. Guys like that end up working some shit job somewhere, getting acquainted with the local PD.”
I paused, the memory still vivid. “But I’ll never forget the look on his face. He lost everything—the store, the business, everything he’d worked for. All gone. When he lost his daughter ... he lost everything. Nothing mattered to him anymore.”
I looked at her. “And the most painful part?” I said quietly. “Was him knowing his daughter’s body was thrown in a dumpster. Like trash. As if her life had no meaning—no different than tossing away an empty wrapper.”
I took a deep breath, trying to shake it off.
“So, we’re going to see Wren tomorrow,” I said with a shrug. “See if she says anything that’s not in that case file. Anything that might point us in a different direction—maybe something that helps us find this Domme.”
I picked up the photo, studying it.
“My gut says she’s somehow involved. She knows something. Or at least can help us.”
I turned to her. “And I’m hoping maybe she says something that’ll catch your ear, Dr. Erin Myers.”
She gave a small shake of her head. “Just because they’re Dommes doesn’t mean they know each other. It’s not some secret club where everyone hangs out and swaps names. Most keep to themselves.”
“See?” I said, smiling. “You’re already helping. Look at everything I’ve learned just sitting here with you.”
“Yeah, Myers,” I whispered. “You’re right. I’m nearing retirement. I don’t need this shit. I really don’t. But I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting lately. Did you know I’m a grandfather? First grandkid.”
A small smile flickered and faded.
“So, this matters to me. I know it won’t bring that man’s daughter back. I know it won’t heal ten years of pain. But I want to—” I glanced at her. “I want to find this guy and end whatever quiet he thinks he has.”
*Friday, April 4 — 10:14 PM
The Obsidian Room, Philadelphia*
“You sure this is the right place?” she asked, glancing at me. “You know ... this isn’t a nightclub.”
“Yeah,” I said, parking the car and killing the engine.
“I know it’s not,” I told her. “But this is it.”
I looked over at her. “I called the employer listed in her case file. They said she doesn’t work there anymore. After some digging, I found out she’s here.”
I stepped out and scanned the building. The Obsidian Room was tucked behind a black, unmarked door in an industrial strip. The sign was minimalist—just a matte obsidian plaque with an angular logo. That’s it.
Myers crossed her arms, studying the exterior with her usual cool detachment.
“This place is for women only,” she said, her voice calm, but with an edge that carried authority. “Well, sometimes trans women. No cisgender males are allowed in. It’s mostly Dominants, with submissives in very strict, defined roles.”
She looked at me over the top of the car, her gaze sharp but not unappreciative. “The space itself is designed for display and control. Cages hanging from ceiling rigs, reinforced steel for suspension, performance zones. Bondage stations built directly into the walls. Hooks, restraint points—every detail designed with purpose. You get the idea.”
“So, it’s a dungeon,” I said.
“No,” she replied, her lips twitching into a barely-there smile. “It’s more of a curated space—a place where power and control aren’t ... what’s the word ... left to chance. Every element is carefully crafted into a ritual. There’s no chaos here.”
She turned her gaze back to the building, her voice lowering slightly, but still steady. “Everything is deliberate. Structured.”
We began walking toward the entrance. She continued, her pace unhurried, but her words firm, almost reverential. “All submissives are bound while inside. No exceptions. Arms, hands—they’re never free. Binders, mitts, cuffs, collars, muzzles, hoods...” She trailed off for a moment, as though lost in thought. “Every detail is planned. Every movement controlled.”
There was a pause as we neared the door, and then she added with a soft emphasis, “Some dance, but most are simply on display. Dommes come here to explore authority, to release, if they find someone willing to let them. But everything here is intentional. Every moment, every action...”
I raised an eyebrow, glancing at her. “A lesbian bondage club?”
She didn’t answer right away—just gave me a look that said everything.
Then she spoke again, her tone as matter-of-fact as ever. “Everyone’s screened. Background checks. Security. Cameras. This place is invitation only ... you don’t get in here by accident. And if you mess up—you don’t get to come back.”
I chuckled, half-amused. “Okay, so it’s the Continental. But for lesbian Dommes.”
She looked at me. I looked back.
I didn’t think she got the reference. Or maybe she was just pretending not to.
I was about to explain it, but then thought better of it.
So, I just nodded. “Knew you’d be helpful.”
I pointed toward the entrance. “So ... what you’re telling me is, if Wren works here, she’s part of a pretty exclusive crowd.”
Then I smiled at her.
“And here I thought they didn’t know each other,” I said, sarcasm thick in my voice.
Myers didn’t bother responding. She just sighed as we walked up to the door.
A camera was mounted above. Another one, smaller, was embedded directly into the door itself at eye level. Beneath that, a single buzzer. No handle. No welcome mat. Nothing.
I pulled out my invitation and held it up to the lens.
A short buzz. The lock clicked.
We stepped inside—only to be stopped by security.
That’s when Myers pulled out her own invitation.
We flashed our badges.
The man in the entrance was at least six-foot-five and all muscle. He was wearing leather pants, boots, and a chest harness. A thick collar rested around his neck, and an earpiece coiled discreetly behind one ear. He gave us a slow once-over, sighed like we’d just interrupted something more interesting, then stepped aside with a wave. But there was no surprise on his face.
Myers gave a small nod toward the nearby desk. A monitor behind it displayed a live feed of the parking lot—including our car. He’d seen us pull up, seen us walk up.
The interior felt more like the entrance to a government facility than any kind of club. Cold, clean, impersonal. The lighting was bright but subdued, casting a muted sheen across steel and glass surfaces. A full metal detector loomed just ahead, flanked by two security wands on a stand, untouched. Cameras tracked everything. You could feel the scrutiny—even if no one moved.
Myers didn’t flinch, but gave me that I-told-you-so look.
As we passed, I caught him subtly tap his ear. Probably letting someone know we were here.
“No guys?” I asked as we stepped through another set of doors that buzzed open, into the main room.
The contrast hit immediately.
She shot me a look. “You know any six-foot-five women made of muscle they could hire for security?”
I chuckled—then caught myself looking around. Myers wasn’t kidding.
The lighting was dim but intentional—every shadow carefully placed. A low, steady bass pulsed through the space, muted beneath a soundscape of soft chatter and the occasional ambient moan. Outside of quiet conversations and occasional murmurs, the room was hushed. This was less about music and more about atmosphere.
The air was warm and clean, infused with the rich scent of leather, polished wood, and expensive perfume.
It wasn’t sleazy. It was designed. Controlled.
Cages hung from the ceiling, just like Myers had said—swaying gently about three feet off the ground, as if they were breathing. Inside, women were bound ... tight.
Some had their hands pinned behind their backs. Others, in front. Some were blindfolded and muzzled; others fully hooded. Every one of them wore a collar, each embossed with a number.
They were all dressed. Some wore tight dresses that kept their knees pressed together. Others had flowing skirts that fell just above mid-thigh. Everyone was in an outfit that exaggerated their cleavage, but there was no nudity.
Some were silent, lost in quiet surrender—not that it seemed they could speak or even see what was happening around them. Others moved with a slow pulse—dancing to music only they could hear.
What little skin was visible shimmered under the soft lights. Stockings caught the glow—glossy, smooth—while the leather creaked softly with every subtle shift of their bodies. Especially those in the tight dresses. The sound, I assumed if you could hear it, was intimate and alive.
Along the wall, a woman hung suspended, her body swathed in intricate ropes that hugged her skin with an almost artistic precision—beautiful, sensual, and undeniably brutal. Each knot and twist held her in place, a delicate balance of control and freedom. A small crowd gathered, their eyes following every movement as her Domme adjusted the tension, fingers running along the taut ropes, pulling just enough to make her breath hitch.
The woman’s chest rose and fell with a slight tremor as the Domme leaned in, whispering something intimate, something commanding. Her head shook slightly, a silent refusal or perhaps a protest, muffled by the leather muzzle, yet there was no mistaking the connection between them. Whatever was said, the air between them thickened with a tension that was both thrilling and delicious.
As we moved deeper into the space, the alcoves unveiled intimate, private tableaux—each one flickering like a snapshot of restrained desire. Women were bound in various poses, every restraint purposeful, every rope, leather strap, or chain placed with exacting care. The impact play unfolded slowly, methodically, each strike landing with a quiet intensity that seemed to stretch time itself. You could feel each moment being savored, the air thick with anticipation, humming with tension.
Occasionally, a sharp cry—whether from pleasure or pain—escaped through a muzzle or the confines of a hood, raw and unfiltered, a sound that made the atmosphere throb.
But, as Myers had said, everything was controlled. Intentional. Nothing was left to chance. There was no chaos, no disorder. The scenes were not messy—they were ritualistic.
“This place has rules,” Myers muttered, almost with reverence. “Everything is consented to in advance. There’s a vetting process. Limits. Contracts. Safewords. No improvisation of any kind. As I said, anyone who breaks the rules is expelled. Period.”
I nodded, my eyes sweeping the room. It felt like stepping into another world—ceremonial, dark, exacting. Not a performance. And not for outsiders.
The voice came from behind us—measured, amused, effortlessly in control.
We turned to see a woman, perhaps in her early fifties, standing with the unmistakable presence of authority honed over years. She wore a striking black gown that seemed tailored to her very aura. The body of the dress was made from luxurious black bengaline, hugging her curves in a sculpted silhouette that was equal parts elegance and command.
A sheer mesh neckline hinted at bare skin beneath without truly revealing, while billowing bishop sleeves—also in sheer black mesh—added a sense of dark drama to her poised form. The contrast between the structured body of the dress and the soft, floating sleeves created a tension that mirrored the space around us: strict and sensual, refined and raw.
Her legs were sheathed in glossy, sheer black stockings with a sharp seam trailing elegantly up the back, the subtle sheen catching the light with each measured movement. On her feet, impossibly high black leather heels added inches to her stature—their sharp silhouette perfectly echoing the precision and control she effortlessly commanded.
It wasn’t just fashion. It was a message.
She didn’t need to raise her voice to command attention. She wore it.
Myers showed her badge. “Agents,” she said flatly.
I smirked, feeling out of place in my suit.
“So, what gave us away?” I asked, sarcasm dripping. “The suits? Or the fact neither of us is wearing stilettos?”
Myers, as usual, didn’t care much for fashion. She wore black pants and block heels—practical and unpretentious. Around us, women strode past in heels or barefoot, but every single one wore stockings. Even the shortest heels I spotted still stood a solid four inches tall.
The woman didn’t seem surprised by my sarcasm.
I pulled a photo of Wren from my jacket and held it up. “Looking for her. Name’s Carrie Wren. Might be working under a different name.”
The woman glanced at the photo, her eyes scanning it quickly before turning back to me with a look of mild disgust. Without a word, she pointed to one of the cages. Then she motioned over to a waitress, moving through the crowd.
The waitress wore a tight leather pencil skirt, a bustier, a collar, and stockings. High heels—at least five inches—tapped softly on the floor as she moved. Her hands were bound behind her with a leather strap, and a tray was mounted at her waist, held up by chains attached to her collar.
She slowly walked over to us, carefully balancing the drinks on her tray, but the strictness of her skirt—forcing her knees tightly together—and the towering heels made her almost hobble, each step slow and painstakingly measured.
As she reached the woman, she leaned in close, and the woman whispered something in her ear. The waitress gave a quick nod, then continued on her way, moving with careful precision toward the back.
“You may speak with her. Then you leave.”
Without waiting for a response, the woman raised her hand over her shoulder and motioned for us to follow. We moved toward the back of the room, where she led us into a small, dimly lit office.
“Wait here,” she said, her voice flat.
That’s when we saw her.
A woman stood with her hands bound tightly behind her back. She wore a striking gothic leather dress—corset-style, sculpted to her torso with intricate lacing that cinched her waist like a second skin. The rich black leather caught the faint light, gleaming with a subtle, almost menacing sheen. The dress hugged her curves, its structured panels and metal clasps emphasizing dark elegance, while the high neckline and sleeveless cut left her arms bare.
Like all the other women, she wore stockings. But instead of heels, her feet were encased in rigid, impossibly high footwear that forced her toes into a pointed arch, elongating her legs in a way both beautiful and brutal. You could see how carefully she balanced on them—each movement a delicate negotiation with the unforgiving structure that bent her feet unnaturally, restricting motion and demanding both balance and endurance.
Her face was obscured by a leather hood, its open-mouth design leaving her lips exposed and vulnerable, but that’s all. The hood, crafted from soft, supple leather, fit snugly over her head. The mouth opening allowed for easy breathing and access, while the rest of the hood enveloped her, adding an element of mystery and submission to her presence. Around her neck was a high collar that head her head straight and slightly upright.
Before the woman left, her captor reached out, gently lifting her chin and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. The woman responded briefly, a flicker of warmth fading quickly into frustration as the kiss didn’t deepen or continue.
We remained alone in the room with her.
“Miss,” I said.
She didn’t respond.
“Miss,” I repeated, but still there was no reply. None at all.
We simply watched her, poised and fragile, as she balanced herself.
“She can’t hear us,” Myers said, her voice low. “Maybe earplugs under the hood, but I don’t think she knows we’re here.”
I squinted, trying to make sense of the scene. “What’s that pole? It disappears under her dress.”
She stood motionless on a metal platform, about four feet by four feet in size. A metal pole extended upward from the center.
“It’s ... it’s called a one bar,” she replied, then glanced over at me. “The end is shaped like a dildo—it’s probably deep inside her.”
She looked back at the woman.
“It has to be lowered to remove it, by unscrewing the bolt.” She pointed to it. “Even if her hands were free, the dildo’s too deep inside her. She wouldn’t be able to bend forward far enough to reach it—let alone take it out.”
“She’d have to lift herself off it.” She looked back at me. “As you can see, she can’t.”
“So, she has no choice but to stand there, carefully trying not to move so the dildo doesn’t go in any deeper—which is tricky in those ballet boots.”
As I was about to ask her why anyone would do that, the woman suddenly let out a sharp moan. The strain of standing on her toes seemed to be taking its toll.
“Oh, God—that’s deep!” she yelped, her voice thick with a mix of discomfort and something else.”
I raised my eyebrows at Myers, glancing downward, a bit embarrassed for the woman.
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