Her daughter was improving. She could stand now, take a few steps in the hallway. The doctors said physically she would recover. Emotionally was another matter, though there too they saw progress.
Susan had started talking again, even smiling once in a while. Though whenever a man came near, she still flinched and pressed close to her mother. “Mom, what happened to him?” Susan asked one day.
Eleanor knew who she meant. “I don’t know, honey. They say there was some kind of fight. He’s in the hospital.”
Susan was quiet for a long time, then said softly, “Good.” The subject didn’t come up again. But sometimes Eleanor caught a strange look in her daughter’s eyes.
Part frightened, part understanding. As if Susan suspected something, but was afraid to ask directly. Kevin Gold remained blissfully unaware for two full weeks after what happened to Peters.
His father, the department store owner, shielded his only son from bad news. And Kevin himself had little interest in his friend’s fate. So what if the supervisor got cut up in some drunken fight? These things happened.
The young man went on with his wild life: sleeping late, drinking at night, bragging to his buddies about his exploits. It was in one of those taverns that Eleanor heard the thing that settled her resolve once and for all.
She had gone in by chance on her way back from the hospital. It had started raining, and she stepped inside to wait it out. Sat in a corner and ordered tea. At the next table sat a group of young men, including Kevin Gold.
Already drunk, they talked loudly without caring who heard. “Remember that nursing student last month?” one of them snickered. Kevin grinned wide. “You bet I do.”
“Quiet little thing too. Barely even screamed. Peters said afterward we should’ve finished the job, but I told him let her live. Nobody’d believe her anyway. If anything came up, Dad would smooth it over. He’s got connections.”
Eleanor sat gripping her tea glass so hard her knuckles turned white. Inside, everything went cold. Not only no remorse—he was bragging. Proud of it. Treating it like some funny story.
In that moment her last doubts disappeared. If she had still hesitated with Peters, wondering whether it was too harsh, now she knew for sure: all of them had to answer.
May 2. A holiday. The whole town was out celebrating, drinking, carrying on.
Perfect timing: everybody relaxed, attention dulled, police busy with drunks downtown. Eleanor prepared for three days. Studied the schedule of the bathhouse Kevin visited on Tuesdays.
Checked an abandoned house on the edge of town: basement with thick walls, far from homes. Prepared everything she needed: stronger rope, a better gag, more chloroform. And one more thing.
Her late husband’s straight razor, sharpened to a fine edge. That evening, when Kevin came out of the bathhouse flushed and pleased with himself, Eleanor was already waiting in the alley. Men’s clothes, cap pulled low, slouched walk—just another half-drunk workingman, one of hundreds on a holiday.
The boy didn’t even notice the figure behind him. Why would he? He was the department store owner’s son. Who would dare touch him?
The blow was clean, to the base of the skull, just as she had been taught in the war. Not enough to kill, but enough to drop him hard. Kevin crumpled.
Eleanor dragged him behind a shed and pressed the chloroform rag to his face. Then came the hardest part—getting him to the basement. He was young, healthy, close to one hundred eighty pounds.
But Eleanor managed. Years at the machine had given her strength, and fury gave her endurance. Kevin Gold came to an hour later…
