— Oh, I understand you so well. I always have something reminding me too.
And she continued talking. And Pavel, sitting two tables away with a backup recorder, was recording every word.
Artur’s late-night visit happened three days later. Apparently, the Zotovs decided to increase the pressure. Konstantin heard the sound of a motorcycle in the courtyard, then footsteps toward the entrance. But before Artur reached the intercom, chanson music blasted from the speaker on his handlebars, echoing through the entire courtyard.
The neighbor’s mutt, Barbos, howled in tune. The old lady from the second floor threw open her window:
— What’s this concert at one in the morning?! I’m calling the police!
Artur darted to his motorcycle, turning off the music, and dropped his helmet. It rolled under someone’s Priora. While he was retrieving it, swearing under his breath, lights came on in three more apartments. Finally, he reached the intercom.
— Yulya, it’s Artur. Let’s sort this out like family.
Konstantin gestured for everyone to be quiet. Rashid turned on the voice recorder.
— If you make a scene, Yulya will lose, — Artur’s voice sounded muffled through the speaker. — Maxim will file a report. We have our people in child protective services.
— Go away, — Konstantin said into the intercom without opening the door.
— Konstantin Dmitrievich, don’t make things difficult. I work at the State Registry. Do you know how much can be, well… adjusted in documents? Your deed of gift, for example, no one will ever find it if we reach a friendly agreement.
— Go away, Artur. Before the neighbors call the police.
Artur spat on the asphalt, turned, and walked toward his motorcycle. Slowly, defiantly, but under the watchful eyes of the awakened pensioners leaning out of their windows, memorizing his face.
Rashid turned off the recorder and looked at Konstantin. His expression was that of a man who had just received a gift he hadn’t even asked for.
— He just confessed to a crime in office in front of witnesses, — he said quietly, putting the recorder in his inner jacket pocket. — The whole courtyard is awake and memorizing his face. The old lady from the second floor, I bet, is already calling the local cop.
Yulya sat on the couch, hugging a now-awake Bogdan. Her hands were still trembling — that fine, almost imperceptible tremor that betrays a person living in constant fear. But something new had appeared in her eyes. Not fear, but anger. The healthy kind of anger that helps people get back on their feet and move forward when everything around seems hopeless.
— Dad, — she raised her head, and her voice sounded firmer than it had in all the previous days. — I want to fight. I just don’t know how.
Konstantin sat down next to her, placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling the sharp bones beneath his fingers. His daughter had lost so much weight that her shirt hung on her like a sack.
— You don’t need to know everything, — he said. — You just need to endure and be honest. We’ll do the rest.
Pavel nodded from his corner, where he was reviewing some documents on a tablet.
— Yulia Konstantinovna, your task now is to rest and recover. Bogdan needs a healthy mother, not an exhausted one. Everything else is our job.
The next morning, Potap called with news that completely changed the game. His voice sounded excited, with the undertone of a man who could finally get revenge on those who had wronged him.
— Konstantin Dmitrievich, you won’t believe this! The Zotovs’ next-door neighbor, a pensioner named Nina Vasilievna, has a social media blog called “Nina Vasilievna’s Flowers.” On that very day, she was filming her geraniums on the balcony with her phone. And she caught everything on camera. Absolutely everything.
— What exactly is “everything”?
— How Artur pushes Yulya and Bogdan out of the apartment. How Maxim snatches her bag. How she falls to her knees and cries. And how Emma Yakovlevna stands in the doorway and screams, “Get out of here, you ungrateful wretch!”..
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