Chapter 1 - Ellie

Ellie had never laid eyes on a real murder, before she met Alice Reardon. She had desperately tried not to be prejudiced, and just think of her as any other patient, but she was still surprised, the first time she opened the door to Mrs. Reardons ward at the hospital.

She could have been somebody's mother or grandmother. Blimey, she could have been Ellies!

She was an elegant woman; slim and neat. Her short, brown, waved hair had only flashes of grey in it and her narrow eyes were strong like silver coins. The wrinkles in her face were fine like flaws in pale marble.

"So," Mrs. Reardon said calmly, when she spotted her in the open door. "You are the poor girl, who has to be stuck with me until the very end. I hope you like prison food."

And Ellie couldn't help herself: Even though she knew she was standing face to face to a murderer, she took a liking to the elderly woman that instantly.

"I'm not fussy, ma'am," she said, giving her a light smile as she raised the tray of hospital food in her hands. "I'm use to this."

Mrs. Reardon didn't return her smile. "Not even fussy about your work cases, I see. Have you poisoned the food?"

"No," said Ellie serenely. "It's bad enough as it is."

"What a shame." Mrs. Reardon turned to stare out the window again.

"The guards from Cold Mountain will be here at 11 a.m. tomorrow to pick us up."

"Very well."

Ellie put the tray down, biting her lip thoughtfully.

"You know," she said to Mrs. Reardons back. "I've been following your case in the papers."

"So has any living creature in Louisiana," Mrs. Reardon answered bitterly.

"But I don't think you are a monster."

She could see Mrs. Reardons's reflection blink. 'The Grandmonster', that was what the papers had named her – a tasteless word play, if you asked Ellie. The elderly lady had killed her husband by shooting him in the head, while he was asleep. The same night, she went to his brother's house and killed him too. Jack and Tom Reardon had been the richest men in the town, earning their entire profits by making household appliance. They had been very popular, giving money to the school and sports clubs and putting the town on the world map.

And then, one beautiful night in May, Jacks frail wife killed them both in cold blood. The neighbours heard the shooting at Tom's and when the police arrived, she was waiting outside to surrender. Her reason for the murders had shocked the town: Exploitation and abuse through her entire life. So she claimed anyway.

Except a few bruises, there weren't many proves. Her friends, the few she had, had stood up for her, but their testimonies were nothing compared to the one told by the brothers friends and families. And it didn't help much that Mrs. Reardon never tried to convince the judge to spare her. She took her sentence with a grateful "thank you", the newspapers said.

Almost everyone in the town hated her.

But not Ellie. She didn't approve of what she had done; not the slightest bit – but she couldn't hate her. And not because Mrs. Reardon was elderly, with a weak heart and fits.

But because of what she said, when the judge asked her, why she didn't just commit suicide, after the murders, if she already knew that she was going to die anyway:

"I know I did something horrible, something unforgivable. But it was the only revenge I could get. They ruined my life and I wanted to make them pay. I'm not standing here to be spared. I will take my sentence, because I deserve it. Like they deserved it. I deeply hope, you will someday understand that. That's the only reason why I'm still here."

She was moved to a mental hospital during the trial, but was found sane. When the case closed, she ended up at Sankt Stephen – Ellies hospital. That was a week ago. Tomorrow she was going to be put on death row. And in two or three month time, she would die.

And Ellie would be with her, to the very end.

Mrs. Reardon turned to face her.

"You don't have to be nice to me," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "You are just paid to keep me alive. I know – I heard to judge."

"I'm not here to continue the hate against you, Mrs. Reardon," Ellie said gently. "I promise. There is no point to that."

Mrs. Reardon studied her for a long time. Then she said: "What's your name?"

Heaven, she hadn't even introduced herself!

"It's Eleanor Brent, ma'am – or just Ellie."

"And I'm just Alice," the elderly woman said, her features finally starting to soften. "And I don't ever want to hear that other name again."

oOo

There was a nearly three hours' drive to Sank Stephen from Cold Mountain. Pauls behind was actually numb, when they finally arrived. God damn stagecoaches! And it didn't help a bit, that it was August and already hotter than Hell.

"The wheel's yours on the way back, Brute," he said, whipping of the sweat on his forehead. "Percy and I will be sitting in the back with the old gal."

Brutus stepped out of the car from the passengers seat. "Gotcha."

The walked towards the hospital entrance, young Percy Wetmore at their tail. To Pauls relief, it was a bit cooler inside. They followed a large corridor to the reception.

A young woman, with big glasses and a pointy face, gave them a quick look. "Yes?"

"Paul Edgecombe, Cold Mountain Prison," he said, pulling out his papers. "We're here to pick up one of your patients. A woman named Alice Reardon."

The woman hardly looked at him. "You have an agreement?"

"Yes, as I said…" Paul began, a bit annoyed, but then he was interrupted by a young nurse, that appeared from a hallway behind the counter. She carried a dossier in her arms.

"It's alright, Lauren," she said gently. "I got them."

She was dressed in nothing but white, right from her uniform dress that stopped below the knees, to the apron and collar, which were hold together with a gold coloured emblem. She greeted them, with a friendly smile.

"You must be the guards from Cold Mountain?" She had a weak, British accent that Paul couldn't quite place.

"Yes, ma'am." Paul showed her the papers. "Here to pick up a Mrs. Reardon."

The nurse read them and nodded. "Eleanor Brent. I'm hired to supervise her during the stay."

She shook hands with Brutus first, then Percy. The young man stared at bit to long at her, when he noticed that she wasn't wearing a ring. Not that Paul blamed him, though. She was a young, subdued, but still good-looking girl: Brown hair fell to her shoulders in soft waves, framing a well-proportioned face with warm, blue eyes. Petite she was too; her slim figure couldn't be taller than five and a half foot.

But she was older than Percy, Paul noticed, as he took her hand. Somewhere in her mid twenties, perhaps older. Little Percy Wetmore didn't stand a chance – he had just turned 21 himself.

Miss Brent gave Paul the dossier. "Her papers. Let me just get the keys, then I'll show you to her ward."

They all watched her walk down the hallway again. Paul leaned to his right.

"See something you like, Percy?" he mumbled.

"She's too old," the boy drawled, but still he couldn't stop staring at the features, her uniform quite nicely brought outfrom behind, before she disappeared. Next to him, Brutus made an resignedly sound and shook his head.

After a couple of minutes, she reappeared, carrying a rather large suitcase in he right hand, the keys in her left. Brutus stepped forward to help her with it. She smiled gratefully and made a gesture with her now free hand down the larger corridor.

"This way, gentlemen, if you would be so kind."