Anne had done her work in the morning after patrolling the line of cells in A and B-Block. She was on until four o' clock in the afternoon, and would then go home for the night. She intended to pick up the tapes as easily as she had dropped them off the next morning.

She hadn't expected the level of anxiety she would experience during the wait, the knowledge that Sewell or Benson could discover the recording devices and possibly trace them back to her (Anne had yet to glean just what kind of contacts Sewell had) a constant threat in her mind. She found herself drifting off at points during the day.

"Ma'am. Ma'am. Ma'am. Officer!" Anne jerked suddenly. She had been staring at the ground, mind blank but thick with tension, and hadn't noticed a prisoner waving at her.

"Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you?"

"Shoot."

The inmate (Carver, Canton, Colby, something to that effect) started to tell Anne about some fight that had happened with another inmate, and she had to force herself to focus as she listened. "And where did this happen?"

"In the weight-room, by the rack where they keep those big, heavy ball-things." He began to rub at a faded scar on his neck. "Didn't do nothing to him, ma'am. He just jumped me. I've only ever had one conversation with the guy anyway."

"All right, I'll take a look into it. I'll probably come back later and ask you to fill out an incident report, but I'll check and see if there might be any obvious evidence." She glanced at the cut on the palm of his hand, which had since been wrapped in a bandage. Anne found that prison, in a twisted way, was very similar to elementary school: If you got pushed on the playground you didn't just snitch to the teacher right away or you would catch hell, which was why this guy had waited a few hours to report it.

Of course, 'hell' in school was significantly different from prison 'hell'.

Truthfully, Anne was thankful for something to focus on, something she could get involved in and hopefully lose time to, take the edge off of her nerves. She traversed down to the currently unoccupied weight-room and looked around.

All right, the rack where they keep the big, heavy balls… There. Anne zeroed in on the rack and strode over, kneeling down next to the wall that the aggressor had supposedly shoved that inmate into. She scanned the floor, the rack, and then the faded, pine-green wall until she found was she was looking for: A dark, dried stain that was probably blood, given that the shape of the smear seemed to be consistent with someone with blood on their palm trying to catch themselves on the wall.

Right, so I'll have to go get Carter, Carlton- whatever the hell his name is- and bring him down to the office so that he can fill out the report. Then I'll have to get Gerber and bring him down so he can defend himself, get his statement, and then I guess it becomes-

A loud clanging noise in the otherwise silent room made Anne jump, heart leaping into her throat- and she was pretty certain that it stopped beating when she heard a painfully familiar voice.

"Hey there, sugar."

Anne whipped around to see Sewell standing over her, twirling his nightstick in one hand and smiling that bullshit-smile he had for just about every occasion. "Officer Sewell." She managed, trying not to appear as panicked as she felt.

Sewell clucked his tongue. "Oh, come on now: Your dad and I were colleagues, coworkers, pals. You can call me George."

He gave the metal rack holding the weight-balls another tap with the nightstick. Anne eyed it for a moment, and remembered with no small amount of disgust and hatred that Sewell had possibly used that very same stick (or at least, one like it) to bash her father in the nose, knocking Frank down so that he could assault him more easily.

Anne was not a woman accustomed to hiding what she really felt, regardless of how good a liar she was; but Ryall had been an exercise in just that. She forced herself not only not to scowl, but to manage a pleasant tone and say, "Well, I guess it's only fair that you call me Anne, then."

Sewell chuckled, and it took a little more resistance to avoid decking him. "Well, Anne, what are you up to?" He smacked the nightstick up and down into the palm of his hand. Maybe Anne was just being oversensitive, paranoid because of what she knew, but the action struck her as threatening. Then again, Sewell was probably accustomed to behaving in a threatening manner and didn't think twice about it, even when he wasn't trying to be.

She stood up, straightening her jacket and pushing back a strand of hair. "Apparently a little spat broke out here earlier. An inmate was assaulted." Anne gestured to the blood-smear on the wall. Sewell glanced at it, but didn't seem particularly perturbed.

"Between who?"

"Somebody named Gerber and an inmate whose name begins with C. Can't remember it for the life of me."

"Casey." Sewell rolled his eyes. "It's probably Casey. Asshole doesn't know when to shut his mouth. Also doesn't know when to mind his own damn business, so believe me when I say this isn't the first or last time he'll get himself knocked around."

"If someone was knocking him around, I would think telling an officer would be reasonable."

Sewell's smile faded. "Running to the guards like a school-room sissy? If he doesn't know better than to keep to himself, I'd say he's asking for whatever he gets."

Anne kept her expression neutral, but her heart was pounding. She tried to remind herself that there were cameras in the weight-room, that Sewell wouldn't dare do or say anything threatening or incriminating to her here. Still, being alone with him was discomfiting; especially on the subject of people not minding their own business.

"Well," She said, taking a deep breath and moving towards the door, "Regardless, he reported it to me, and now I have to have him and Gerber fill out incident reports."

The nightstick swung out and blocked her path smoothly and swiftly, and Anne tensed. Her hands fell by her sides, but one twitched towards her own nightstick attached to her belt, preparing to grab it and smash him across the face as hard as she had to (she could get some measure of guilt-free self-satisfaction out of it if it was self-defense, right?).

"Can I ask you a question, Anne?"

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

"I don't know, George. Can you?"

Sewell rolled his eyes overdramatically. "Oh God, you're one of those people." He shook his head, smirking a smirk that faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. "But if I may…" He stepped forward, right into Anne's personal space, and this time her fingers did close around her nightstick, edging it out of the loop as unnoticeably as she could. "I have to know, sugar: Did you do it?"

Anne didn't look him in the eye. He was too close. "Do what?"

"Kill Pendleton."

Anne was expecting that question about as much as she would have expected to get a water balloon dropped onto her head. She did look at Sewell then, and her poker-face slipped off in favor of an expression of confusion. "Did I kill Pendleton?"

Sewell scoffed and rolled his eyes again. "Sugar, you can't not know what I'm talking about. I know you were being investigated up until last month about it; the powers that be didn't like your account of what happened, from what I heard."
As Sewell should have had virtually no involvement in that case, Anne was stricken with yet another charge of paranoia: If he knew why the authorities hadn't been content with her story about Murphy's supposed death, then what else did he know that he shouldn't? If there had been any doubts about how closely she needed to watch her step, they were gone now.

"I- No, I didn't." Anne took a step back, and was relieved enough to release her hold on her nightstick when Sewell didn't pursue her.

"Come on, sweetheart- I'm no rat, I won't tell if you did or didn't." Sewell gave her a fox-like smirk. "It'll be our little secret. I hated the bastard almost as much as I bet you did."

Anne's eyes narrowed. "I didn't. Kill. Pendleton. He fell off a ledge in Silent Hill when he was trying to escape. If you're having trouble believing that, then go visit the Devil's Pit for yourself and see how easy it would be for a person to fall to their death."

No, really, give it a try. It would save me a lot of trouble.

She could tell from the look on his face that he didn't believe her, and that was perfectly fine: Hell, it would probably serve Anne better if Sewell believed that she had eradicated a potential problem of his, as Murphy was the only one who could ever legitimately claim witness to what had really happened to Frank.

Sewell watched her for a long moment, and then shrugged. "All right then." Finally, he stepped aside to let her pass, and once she had, Anne let out a sigh of relief. Just as she got to the door, though, "Oh, and Anne?" Anne turned back, and Sewell's smile had returned. "If you ever need any help dealing with Casey again- or anything else, for that matter- you let me know."

Anne did not like the way he said that.

"I think I can handle things myself."

Sewell's smile was sickening.

"If you insist, sugar. You let me know."

[-]

Anne had a sleepless night.

If someone finds those recorders, I'm a dead woman.

But then, she could quickly become a dead woman at any point during this venture, so sooner or later didn't seem to matter much.

She laid awake, watching the neon-green numbers on the digital clock change, counting the seconds and hoping that it might help her sleep. It didn't- all it did was remind her how much time there was between now and having to get up and go to work. The wait was agonizing, but the concept of actually having to go into work and retrieve the tape recorders without anyone noticing was just as bad, if not worse.

Planning things out at midnight when she was trying to sleep was not, perhaps, the sagest idea, but it did calm her slightly.

I can leave something in my car: My gun, cuffs, radio, paperwork, something. I can get the recorders, stow them in my jacket, say that I left something in my car and put them under the seat when I go to get it. That way I won't have to keep them on or in my desk where someone might see them.

Damn, but what if they tell me not to bother? What if they tell me they need me somewhere else and I don't have the chance? I could keep them in my jacket, but I only have one pocket I could put them in, and I can't fit them both- that leaves the desk, where someone might see them or take them, especially Sewell or Benson-

Anne dug her fingers into her pillow and grit her teeth.

Stop it. Stop. There's caution, and then there's paranoia. Unless there's a riot or some similar crisis, no one's going to have a problem with you running out to your car. And if there is a crisis, stow the recorders for a while and then go to your car at the first available opportunity. It's not a big deal.

There was one other problem she would possibly have to contend with: Anne had only managed to procure tapes that would record for twelve hours, which meant from seven AM to seven PM. What if they didn't catch anything? What if Sewell and Benson only had one of their cafeteria-chats that day? Anne had not given a great deal of consideration to what she would do if the tapes didn't record anything worthwhile. This day had been bad enough: Would she be able to handle another like it?

Anne managed to drift off to sleep around two and achieved a grand total of three and a half hours of sleep, having to get up at five-thirty to get ready to leave around six. Her eyes were a bit red, but other than that, she felt it wasn't too obvious that she hadn't slept. The drive to Ryall was one long, blank blur. The only thing that really penetrated was the pain in Anne's neck, shoulders and forehead; not unusual, as that was usually what happened when she was tense.

When she took a left onto the road that led down to the prison, Anne let out a slow breath.

Relax. You have a plan. You know the plan. If you could hide the recorders, you can get them back too.

In theory. She had already gone over the thousands of ways things could go very wrong very fast.

Anne left her nightstick in the car. Guns weren't allowed in the prison at large, because one fast inmate who could wrestle it out of your belt could do more damage than anyone was willing to risk. Of all the things she could leave behind, the nightstick was one that she would have the best chance of being able to go back for; it was a matter of safety, one of her few methods of protection from the inmates.

The walk inside was long and so damn slow, and Anne had to try to appear as natural as possible as she passed her coworkers. Patrolling had its heart-stopping moments: Another guard stopped to talk to her and held her up, another two officers were talking within close enough proximity to B-Block that she felt she should wait before making a move- and more important than those she did see and here, Anne was concerned with who she didn't see: Sewell. He had odd hours, and she had to stop and make sure that if he was at the prison that he wasn't anywhere near B-Block or the showers.

But in the end, she did it: Anne ripped the recorder out from behind the fire extinguisher and wedged open the vent so she could retrieve the second. They were both still there, apparently undisturbed. Anne dislodged them both from their hiding places, put them under her jacket, and quickly excused herself to get her baton- that went off without a hitch, and soon she was walking back to the office with the knowledge that the tape-recorders were safe under her car seat.

Anne felt like she had just dodged a dozen bullets. It had gone off without a hitch in spite of the many things that could have gone wrong, and she couldn't have been more relieved. She was trembling with it, in fact, and it didn't go unnoticed.

"Need me to crank up the heat, Cunningham?" Officer Rose asked, eyebrow cocked.

"Hm?"

"You're shaking."

"Oh- Just a few too many coffees this morning." Anne assured before kicking herself. The last thing she needed to do was pull a Benson and make it obvious that she was up to something; if and when the shit started to hit the fan, it would be best if Sewell had no cause to look her way.

The rest of the day was filled with anticipation, but this time of a different sort. Anne was eager to get home and listen to the tapes, to see if maybe she had found anything incriminating. If she was truly lucky, Sewell would admit outright to any misdeeds he had committed and all she had to do was report it to Glen Milton, the warden. That was the best-case scenario, though: She was under the impression that Sewell was crafty and cautious enough that he wouldn't give away the full details of whatever he was doing in a place where someone could potentially overhear him.

Anne's eyes found the clock countless times over the course of the day, and when it was time to leave she barely resisted the urge to bolt out to her car. With a forty-five minute drive ahead of her, Anne pulled out the first recorder (she couldn't tell where it had been hidden) and let it play while she was driving, occasionally fast-forwarding whenever she was at a stoplight or stop sign.

Once or twice, Anne hastily stopped the tape when she distinctly heard voices speeding by; both times, though, it was the banal chit-chat of a few officers, as well as one with an inmate. It occurred to her then that Sewell probably wasn't the only one who utilized quiet spots for a private conversation.

The first tape was done almost ten minutes before she got home, but while punching buttons was one thing, Anne figured that pulling the other recorder out from under the seat with one hand and driving with the other would be just a bit of a stretch. Once she had pulled into her driveway and stopped the car, Anne snatched the second recorder and went inside, pressing the 'play' button as she was heading up the steps.

Anne spent the next half hour carefully listening through the second tape. When she was done, she went back to the first tape and went through it again. By the time she was done, Anne found herself staring flatly at the recorders, placed next to each other on the kitchen table.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Anne's heart fell. "Damn it." She whispered. Both tapes were useless: Nothing of worth on either of them. Knowing her luck, Sewell and Benson had had a meeting in precisely those spots today, without the recorders there to catch anything. And quite honestly, Anne wasn't certain she wanted to do it again: She had been a virtual nervous-wreck for twenty-four hours, after all.

She took a deep breath. I committed to this. I need to follow through on it. I'll rewind the tapes and set them up again. Maybe I'll get lucky this time.

Or maybe she wouldn't. With every day that passed that she had those recorders there, Anne ran the risk of Sewell or Benson discovering them.

But what choice did she have?