The gray walls of the prison loomed over Angela Gibbs as she crossed the courtyard to the maximum security unit. The February wind cut through her uniform, forcing her to wrap her jacket tighter. After five years in the general ward, she’d been transferred to a place housing the most dangerous criminals. The heavy metal door slammed behind her. Warden Warren Pagee, tall and gray-haired with a military bearing, led her down a dimly lit corridor.

Strict regimen has its own rules, Gibbs—no amateurishness, no indulgences. Everyone here is a potential threat, Pagee’s voice echoed off the walls. Angela nodded silently, absorbing the new reality. The corridor was lined with cells, the bars and the smell of chlorine and confinement pressing in on her. The inmates watched her with wary glances; a new guard was always an event.

Your shift is from seven in the morning to seven at night, third tier, Cell Block C. The shift supervisor is Mitchell; he’ll fill you in, Pagee said, handing her a bunch of keys and an electronic pass. The third tier greeted her with silence. Here, the cells were solitary—a luxury for those who behaved well. Angela walked slowly along the row, getting used to her new station.

From cell 312 came a soft singing, someone humming Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Intrigued, she peered through the observation window. A tall man sat on his bunk, leaning over a book. When he heard footsteps, he looked up, and Angela met the most piercing gaze of her life. His eyes were bright, almost transparent, calm and steady.

Good morning, Miss, he said, his voice soft with a slight accent. Glad to welcome a new face to our haven. She nodded, noting his unusual speech, the impeccably ironed robe, the neatly made bunk, the stack of books—everything marked him as a man who retained dignity even here. Prisoner number? she asked, masking her interest with professional austerity. 24785, Nicola Becker, he replied, bowing his head slightly as if at a social occasion.

All day Angela acclimated to her new duty station. Block C was relatively quiet, home to long-serving prisoners who had accepted their fate. Mitchell, the stocky, red-faced supervisor, showed her around, introduced her to the security system, and explained the routine. By evening, she felt exhausted—not physically, but emotionally. The new reality pressed on her, making her wary every second.

Leaving the cell block, she passed 312 again. Nicola Becker was still reading, now at the window, catching the last rays of the February sun. At home, lying in bed, Angela remembered that gaze—calm, studying, not at all like the hunted or aggressive eyes of other prisoners. There was intelligence in it, some inner strength. What had put such a man behind bars? The question kept her awake until morning.

The staff room was quiet as Angela flipped through Nicola Becker’s personal file. The photograph showed him in an AER suit, taken before incarceration—the same piercing gaze, but with confidence, even arrogance. Education: Yale University, Department of Economics; six years at a major investment firm, impeccable career, letters of recommendation. Then, an armed bank robbery and the murder of a security guard. Angela read the dry protocol: shot in the chest, death was instantaneous.

Studying our intellectual, Judy Brooks, the prison psychologist, made Angela wince. Interesting case—went broke after the stock market crash, lost everything, went into debt with dangerous people. Classic fall story. He doesn’t look like a killer, Angela said, closing the file. What’s a killer supposed to look like? Judy replied, sitting beside her. The worst crimes are often committed by those you least expect.

The usual morning bustle reigned in Cell Block C—breakfast delivery, cell checks, guard shifts. Passing cell 312, Angela slowed. Nicola stood by a wall where a remarkably accurate portrait of a young woman was drawn in pencil. Your work? she asked, pausing. Yes, my wife—ex-wife, he replied, running his hand over the drawing. Drawing helps keep the details in mind—the facial features, the curve of the lips, the look—all fade over time.

You draw beautifully, Angela said. Thank you. I went to art school before finances got tight, he smiled. You should have seen the Impressionists at the Orsay—Monet, Renoir, Degas. That’s real art. Been to Paris three times, last time was six months before—he paused. I’m sorry, Miss Gibbs, I don’t want to abuse your time.

She should have walked away, kept her distance, but something kept her in front of the window. What are you reading now? Camus, The Outsider—surprisingly in tune with my situation. He picked up the book. A man commits murder and can’t explain why; society judges him not for the crime, but for his inability to play by the rules, to show the right emotions. Angela felt a chill—he was talking about murder as calmly as discussing the weather.

Do you like Camus? he asked. I haven’t read it. I can lend it when I finish—there aren’t many connoisseurs of good literature here. That evening, checking the cells before lights out, she lingered at 312. Nicola was asleep, the book resting on his chest. In sleep, his face seemed serene. Angela watched him and thought about the man he had shot—someone’s husband, son, father. How to reconcile that with the intelligent man discussing art and literature?

The prison library was in the semi-basement of Cell Block C. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, prisoners could spend an hour there under guard supervision. Angela volunteered for library duty—it was a distraction from the monotony of corridors. On Thursday, Nicola was the only visitor. He moved slowly along the shelves, fingers sliding along book spines.

Have you read Hemingway, Miss Gibbs? he asked, pulling out a shabby volume. I met his grandson in Paris—amazing coincidence, same bar in Montmartre. Really? Yes, he talked about his grandfather—a very different image than the one everyone knows. I remember thinking how amazing life is—sitting in a Paris bar with a great writer’s grandson. Nicola fell silent, clutching the book.

And then, six months later, you’re standing with a gun in a bank and everything goes to hell. Angela tensed—they weren’t allowed to discuss crime with prisoners. But Nicola continued, looking through the bookshelves. I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I thought I’d just scare them, take the money, pay off debts. The guard reached for his gun; I fired reflexively—he went down, casual, just slumped to the floor. I still remember the look in his eyes—surprised, like that.

You shouldn’t talk about that, Angela said. I know, but I have to tell someone—I’ve carried it for three years. I see his face every night. He left two children. I know I’ve ruined dozens of lives, and for what? Money. There was such genuine pain in his voice that Angela involuntarily stepped closer. It was a mistake—in the library, they should have kept their distance.

Nicola looked up, tears in his eyes. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that. It’s okay, she wanted to say more, but faltered. The next Tuesday, they discussed Hemingway, then Fitzgerald. Talking about literature seemed safe, but each time, the line between prisoner and guard grew thinner.

Judy Brooks was the first to notice the change. She approached Angela in the staff mess hall. How’s high security treating you? The psychologist asked, stirring her coffee. It’s fine—calmer than I expected. I’ve seen you on library duty a lot—interesting choice for a security guard. I love books, Angela shrugged, and conversations about them.

Judy looked at her carefully. Especially with some prisoners? I don’t know what you mean. Get it right, Angela—the important thing is remembering who’s who. Sympathy is fine, but don’t forget where the line is drawn. I remember my responsibilities, Angela replied, standing from the table. I hope so, Judy said quietly after her.

That evening, in the library, Nicola read aloud The Old Man and the Sea. His voice, soft and deep, filled the space between the shelves. Angela listened with her eyes closed, imagining they were somewhere far away—a Parisian café, a New York gallery, anywhere but the prison library. Springtime in prison was acute—the sunlight streaming through barred windows made captivity feel sharper. Angela now spent almost all her shifts in the library; the other guards were glad—few liked the boring duty.

She and Nicola created a ritual. He read her favorite passages, she brought art magazines from the city library. Sometimes their fingers touched when he handed her a book, and that touch burned. That afternoon, Nicola talked about Venice. Angela listened, leaning against the shelving unit, forgetting to keep her distance.

You know what’s beautiful about Venice? The air—soaked with history and art. Every breath is like a sip of eternity, he whispered, looking into her eyes. You would fall in love with this city. The switch to “you” happened imperceptibly—Angela couldn’t remember when it started. I’ve never been to Europe, she said, lowering her eyes.

We could go together someday, he replied, touching her wrist. She should have pulled away, remembered the rules—instead, she froze, feeling the warmth of his fingers. We’re not allowed to—not allowed to what? Dream? Feel? He stepped closer. You feel what I feel.

Their first kiss happened right there, between the dusty shelves. Angela didn’t remember who reached out first—everything merged into a maelstrom of sensation: his lips, his hands, his whispers. Reality ceased to exist. That evening, she stood under the shower, trying to wash away the guilt. What was she doing? How could she let this happen? But the next morning, she walked to the library again, knowing he’d be waiting.

The notes began—little scraps of paper she’d sneak out. Nicola wrote poems, drew sketches. She wrote back, tentatively at first, then more openly. Angela began to forge the library’s visit log, writing in other inmates instead of Nicola. She ignored when he stayed longer than the allotted hour, brought him books forbidden by prison rules.

One day, she caught him talking to another inmate in the hallway. What was that about? she asked later. Nothing much—just pleasantries, he smiled. You know how important relationships are here. You’re not allowed to talk to prisoners from other units. You’re breaking the rules too—his voice grew harsher. Or is it different for you?

She remained silent. He was right—she had long ago overstepped every boundary. I’m sorry, he hugged her. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just so hard here sometimes—you’re the only thing keeping me afloat. Angela melted at his words.

She didn’t notice how Nicola began to manipulate her—small things at first: changing a journal entry, bringing a note to another prisoner, accidentally leaving the staff room door open. If you love me, you’ll help me, he would say. It’s just little things, nothing serious. Judy Brooks tried to talk to her again.

Angela, I see what’s happening—you’re changing, distracted, breaking protocol. It’s a dangerous path. You don’t understand anything. I do, more than you realize—he has a knack for making people fall in love with him. It’s his defense mechanism, his way of surviving. You’re wrong—there’s nothing between us. Then why are you blushing? Why are you protecting him?

Angela ran out of the counselor’s office. She didn’t want to hear the truth, didn’t want to think about Nicola using her. At night, she reread his notes—my soul yearns for you like a moth to a flame, he wrote. You give me hope in this realm of shadows—beautiful words that made her dizzy. By day, she caught his glances through the bars, kissed him secretly in the library, risked her career and freedom for a few minutes of intimacy.

Her world narrowed to those encounters—to his touch, his voice. She hadn’t noticed how other guards began to avoid her, how her superiors watched her more closely, how Judy’s eyes grew worried. Her existence split in two—the gray reality, and vivid, passion-filled moments with him. I’m going crazy, she whispered, snuggling against him in the tight space between shelves. We’re both going crazy, he replied, kissing her neck. But isn’t it a beautiful madness?

Warden Warren Pagee’s office was stuffy. Nicola Becker sat across the massive desk, outwardly calm but with twitching fingers. The application for parole is denied, Pagee said, looking down. The board deemed the severity of the offense too great. Nicola stopped listening—three years of good behavior, working at the library, rehabilitation programs—all for nothing. He would stay another nine years.

In the library, Angela noticed the change in his mood immediately. What happened? Rejected, he tossed the book back on the shelf. You know what’s funny? I actually believed the system worked, that good behavior meant something. I’m sorry, she tried to touch his arm, but he pulled away. Sorry? You’re sorry? His voice hardened.

You know what I’m sorry about? Wasting my time playing games with you. What are you talking about? I’m talking about the fact that you could help me—really help me, not just carry books and notes. Nicola, I have a phone and pictures of our meetings, our correspondence. He pulled out a folded paper. What do you think Pagee will say when she sees these? When she reads your declarations of love to a prisoner?

Angela felt the ground drop beneath her. You won’t do that. Why not? I have nothing to lose. But you—how much do you get for associating with a prisoner? For carrying prohibited items? For forging documents? I loved you. Love? He laughed. You were a convenient tool. You think you’re special—the first guard to lose her head to a prisoner?

The next three days passed in a blur. Nicola demanded help organizing an escape—he had thought of everything: who to bribe, which doors to open, when to act. Angela listened to his plan, feeling everything freeze inside. The prison laundry room was always damp and noisy; the rumble of washing machines drowned out all sound. On Wednesdays, Nicola worked there alone.

She walked in as he was folding sheets. I’ll do it, she said. I’ll help you run. He turned, a familiar cocky smile on his face. I knew you’d make the right decision. The heavy wrench lay on the tool shelf—Angela saw it every day. The blow hit him in the temple; Nicola didn’t even realize what was happening. He collapsed, blood gushing from the wound. The second blow was unnecessary, but she couldn’t stop—a third, fourth, fifth. The sound of wet blows mingled with the machines.

Angela was methodical—wiped the key, put it back, checked the security cameras. There were none in the laundry room, only in the hallway—and those were rarely checked at this hour. In Cell Block D, Ray Harris, known for his aggressiveness, sat. Two days ago, he’d had an altercation with Nicola in the cafeteria. Angela falsified the laundry log, putting Harris in it.

The body was discovered an hour later—screaming, commotion, sirens blaring. Angela stood in the cordon with the other guards, watching medics cover the body. There wasn’t a speck of blood on her uniform. How awful, she said to Judy Brooks. He was such a quiet prisoner. Judy looked at her long, but said nothing.

In the evening, Angela burned all Nicola’s notes. In the ashes, she saw a scrap of the last one—You give me hope in this realm of shadows. A bitter laugh escaped her. The next day, Detective Arnold Farmer of Major Crimes came to the prison. Angela saw him talking to Pagee, studying the scene. It seemed every glance he gave was directed at her—but she’d thought of everything. There was no trace; Harris had motive, journal entries confirmed his presence. The perfect crime.

Detective Farmer surveyed the laundry room, making notes. His bulky figure seemed out of place among washing machines and baskets. Nearby, Warden Pagee shuffled nervously. So, the guard on duty found the body? Yes—Michael Stevens, on rounds at 14:30. Farmer squatted, examining the dark stain on the concrete. Did they find the murder weapon? Wrench, lying on the tool shelf, blood all over it.

That’s odd, Farmer said. Usually killers don’t bother cleaning up. He walked slowly, stopping at each corner. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t figure it out yet. Tell me about the suspect—Ray Harris, serving life for double murder. Harris had run-ins with other inmates, confronted the victim two days ago in the mess hall. What was it about? Usual prison nonsense—a line for food, a rude word.

Farmer pulled out a photo of Nicola Becker. What can you tell me about the victim? Model inmate—worked at the library, participated in rehabilitation, no serious offenses in three years. Then why would such a quiet inmate provoke a conflict with the most dangerous resident? Pagee shrugged. Stuff happens in prison.

Farmer spent two days interviewing witnesses. Guards were reluctant to talk; inmates even less so. No one saw anything, heard anything, knew anything. How long have you worked with Becker in the library? he asked Angela Gibbs. About six months—I was usually on duty Tuesdays and Thursdays. What kind of impression did he make? Calm, polite, read a lot, never caused trouble.

Farmer noted how she rubbed her sleeve—nervous, or just upset by the death? That evening, he reread the statements when Judy Brooks knocked on his office door. Detective, do you have a minute? Sure, have a seat. I’ve been reviewing my interviews with Nicola before his death—his behavior changed: irritable, aggressive. What’s that about? He was denied parole, but there was something else—it was like he was preparing for something. I just couldn’t figure out what.

Farmer made a note—the picture wasn’t adding up. A quiet prisoner suddenly erupts into conflict; the killer carefully returns the weapon. Strange changes in behavior. He pulled the laundry log—the entry for Harris was spotless. Too spotless. Prison always smells the same—chlorine and hopelessness. Farmer knew that smell well; he’d seen plenty of prison murders in twenty years.

I want to see the security tapes, he demanded of the warden first thing in the morning. Pagee became nervous. We’ve had technical problems—two days ago, the drives failed. Cameras are only working in real time. When do you expect repairs? Next week, the specialist promised. Farmer made another note—too good a coincidence.

The interrogation room greeted him with the creak of an iron chair. Ray Harris towered over the table—massive, tattooed, hard-eyed. Where were you yesterday between 14:00 and 14:30? In my cell. The laundry log says otherwise. I don’t care about the log—I was in my cell. Harris crossed his arms. Ask the guards, ask the inmates. There was absolute certainty in his voice—not fear or anger, but a simple statement of fact.

Farmer spent hours interviewing witnesses. Guards answered sparingly, prisoners hid their eyes and mumbled. Any change in the victim’s behavior? he asked Judy Brooks. In the week before his death, he became irritable—denied parole. Farmer went back to the visitation log again and again—the entry for Harris’s presence in the laundry room looked perfect. Too perfect.

Who keeps the log? he asked Pagee. The guards on duty—Stevens and Gibbs were there that day. The detective tapped his pencil thoughtfully. The cameras had malfunctioned; the prime suspect denied being at the scene; a perfect log entry. Someone went to great lengths to misdirect the investigation—someone with access to the log, someone in security.

A fine fall rain drizzled as Detective Farmer parked outside the police records building. The investigation had stalled, so he dug deeper into Nicola Becker’s past. Becker’s story lay in yellowed folders—crime scene photos, interview transcripts, witness statements. A successful stockbroker whose life collapsed after the crash—debt, threats, desperation, then bank robbery and the death of a guard.

Farmer scrutinized photos from that time—expensive suit, confident smile, arrogant look. Not at all like a killer, but those were often the most dangerous. The trial testimony wasn’t interesting—Becker didn’t back down, admitted guilt, talked about remorse, about not wanting to kill. The jury wept, but the judge was adamant—twelve years of strict regime.

There was a knock at the archive door—Michael Stevens, one of the guards. Detective, we found something while searching Becker’s cell; the warden asked me to give it to you. The envelope contained letters—dozens, written in neat handwriting on torn notebook paper. Love letters, passionate confessions, poems, little drawings. Where were they hidden? Under the mattress—we inspect after a prisoner dies.

Farmer spread the letters out. No signature, no addresses, but definitely female handwriting. Judy Brooks came to the archives in the evening. She studied the letters, then said quietly, I noticed a change in his behavior—he became more confident, like he had a trump card, especially after parole was denied. Why didn’t you report it? No evidence, just suspicion.

A week before he died, he asked for a change in library duty—said he wasn’t comfortable working with Miss Gibbs. The detective took up the old case again, now knowing about the letters. He looked for other details—a character reference from the prison: inmate works at the library, participates in programs. Guard reports—no complaints. Too perfect.

Guard testimony was piecemeal—no one wanted to talk about co-workers, but slowly a picture emerged. Gibbs? Yeah, she was on library duty a lot. Thomas Green shrugged—she loved books. Notice anything unusual? She seemed fine, though a little jumpy the last month, always checking logs and paperwork. Stevens, who found the letters, was more observant. Becker changed since he started going to the library—more relaxed. And Gibbs changed too—they didn’t do anything overt, but you notice things when you work here long enough.

In one letter, Farmer found a passionate description—One day we’ll walk together in St Mark’s Square, I imagine holding your hand, watching the pigeons, drinking coffee in a little café. He pulled Angela Gibbs’s personnel file—the passport was marked never issued; she’d never been to Venice. But she wrote about it as if she’d seen it herself, drawing descriptions from Nicola’s accounts.

The letters were full of fantasies—of a future, of freedom, of places where they’d be together. But why did Becker keep these dangerous testimonies? And more importantly, what had caused their relationship to end so tragically? The psychologist’s office seemed like an island of comfort—pastel walls, soft light, a few plants. Judy Brooks scrutinized the letters, obsessed with the case.

She was obsessed with him, the psychologist finally pronounced. Look at these repeated phrases, these fantasies about the future—Angela created a whole world in her imagination, together and free. Farmer pulled surveillance photos from two months ago, before the system went down. This is where they first appear together—library, end of shift, classic scenario. Judy shook her head—an inmate with high intelligence and good manners, a guard who feels special, chosen, believing she can save him.

And he gets power—a man in love and uniform is the key to indulgences, extra privileges, perhaps more. The detective tapped his pencil thoughtfully. But something went wrong—judging by the latest letters, she was willing to do anything, asking him to trust her, promising help. Then a sudden change—anxiety, fear of exposure. The evolution was clear—timid hints, casual touches, then passionate confessions, dreams, and finally despair.

I’ve been watching her these past weeks, Judy continued—classic signs of a breakdown: nervousness, mood swings, trying to keep it together. Did you talk to her? I tried, but she avoided me. The day before the murder, I saw them fighting—hallway outside the library. They didn’t know I was there—Nicola was demanding something, Angela looked cornered. Why didn’t you report it? About what—a guard and inmate arguing? That’s common. Besides, I had no proof.

They traced Angela’s route on the day of the murder—morning rounds, ID check, library duty, a brief conversation with Nicola in the hallway. The cameras caught that before the breakdown, then failed. She planned carefully, Judy said, pouring over her notes. When a person is obsessed and then feels betrayed, it’s dangerous—especially if that person has power over the object of their passion.

But where’s the proof? Look at the visitation log dates—Angela started changing entries a week before the murder, preparing a false trail. Nicola probably realized this and started blackmailing her. Then why keep the letters? Maybe as insurance, or—Judy hesitated—it was his final revenge, keeping evidence, knowing it would be found.

Outside, the prison floodlights came on, harshly dividing the yard into squares of light and shadow. Somewhere out there, Angela Gibbs was still working, pretending nothing had happened. The interrogation room felt too small. Angela sat across from Detective Farmer, outwardly composed but nervously rubbing her sleeve.

We found the letters, Farmer said, laying them out on the table—found in Nicola’s cell, under the mattress. She didn’t move, only turned pale. Beautiful fantasies about Venice, about St Mark’s Square, about gondolas, about a future together. He arranged the letters by date. The library log shows you spent far more time there than required.

I like to read, Angela replied. Two days before the murder, cameras recorded your conversation with Becker—the last before the system failed. He demanded something of you—what was it? Silence. And there’s a strange entry in the laundry log—Ray Harris, who has an ironclad alibi, confirmed by three witnesses.

You can’t prove I made the entry. We already have the handwriting examination—it’s yours, just like all these letters. Judy Brooks entered the room. Angela jerked as if struck. Tell me what happened after parole was denied, the psychologist asked gently. What changed?

You don’t understand, Angela whispered. Then explain—what happened in the laundry room? He threatened to tell his superiors—he had a cell phone with pictures of us. Not only would I lose my job, I’d go to jail. And that’s why you killed him? No, I just wanted to talk, to explain, but he laughed—said I was just a tool, that there were people like me in every prison, lonely, longing for love.

Her voice trailed off. The wrench was on the shelf—I don’t remember picking it up, just his laughter and then the blood. You threw five punches, Farmer said quietly. Did I? I didn’t count. And then you forged the log entry to misdirect the investigation. I had to protect myself—from what? From exposure, or from realizing you were being used?

Angela covered her face. He promised we’d be together, start a new life. Then I realized he was just playing me—I was supposed to help him escape. And you killed him? Yes, she raised her tear-filled eyes. I killed him. And you know what? The moment I delivered the final blow—I still loved him.

Farmer silently pulled out the handcuffs. The metal clicked coldly on her wrists. Outside, rain drizzled, blurring the line between those who guard and those who are guarded.

The courtroom was stuffy. Angela Gibbs sat upright, staring blankly ahead. Her uniform replaced by a gray prison dress, but her posture remained—the habit of keeping her back straight. The prosecutor methodically laid out the facts: forbidden relationship, misconduct, premeditated murder to conceal a criminal connection. Every word was a heavy stone.

Her former colleagues appeared on the stand—Michael Stevens spoke of oddities in her behavior, Thomas Green about unexplained corrections in the log, Judy Brooks about her psychological state, choosing words carefully. Between sessions, guards whispered in the hallway—who would have thought? Gibbs was always so straight. Becker had a way of wrapping people around his finger. Remember Jean Miller from the women’s ward? She had her eye on him too. Yeah, but at least she didn’t kill anyone.

Warden Warren Pagee looked ten years older. His testimony was dry—Angela’s sterling service before the incident, how meticulously she performed her duties. Detective Farmer outlined the investigation—letters, camera recordings, forged documents, confessions. Behind his words was a story of obsession leading to tragedy.

Angela’s lawyer based her defense on emotional instability caused by the victim’s manipulation, citing similar cases where inmates used staff. He spoke of remorse, cooperation. The jury deliberated briefly—guilty on all counts. The judge announced the verdict: fifteen years in prison.

Angela didn’t flinch. She was transferred to a maximum security women’s prison in another state. No one there knew her story, but from experience, they recognized the former guard in the new prisoner—too distinctive a gait, too straight a back. At her previous prison, her story became legend—a warning to new staff, a reminder of the thin line between duty and sentiment.

Detective Farmer occasionally pulled out case photos, reread statements, feeling he’d missed something—a detail explaining how someone dedicated to law could cross it so easily. In Nicola Becker’s cell, the new prisoner found another letter behind a loose panel—the last unsent. The guards confiscated it, filed it, but it was never read again.

The verdict was final, the end in sight. Judy Brooks continued working with prisoners, but now talked to guards more, watching for signs history might repeat. The rain still pounded the barred windows, making no distinction between those on one side of the bars and those on the other.