But the anxiety was stronger than reason. The anxiety and the words overheard at the study door: “On Friday morning she’ll be at work, I’ll do everything.”
And somewhere deep inside, Irina knew that something was going to happen tomorrow. Something important. Something that would change everything. She could ignore the premonition, go to work as usual. Or she could trust this strange feeling, this knowledge that came with the old woman’s words.
By morning, she had made a decision. She would call in sick to work. She would stay home. And she would wait. Wait for this “bad guest” the fortune teller had mentioned. She didn’t know what exactly would happen. But she knew she had to be home. She had to be the first to open the door. Because if Andrey opened it, there would be trouble. And for some reason, she believed these words more than her own reason.
On Friday morning, Irina woke up before her alarm. It was still dark outside, only the streetlights in the courtyard cast a yellowish glow. She lay there, listening to her husband’s steady breathing, and felt everything inside her clench with anxiety. Today was that Friday.
At six-thirty, she got up as usual, went to the bathroom, washed her face with cold water, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. She looked at herself in the mirror: a pale face, dark circles under her eyes. She had tossed and turned all night, replaying the overheard conversation, the fortune teller’s words, all the strange occurrences of the past few weeks.
She got dressed in her work uniform, as always. Packed her bag, put in a container with sandwiches, poured tea into a thermos. Everything as usual. But as Irina was putting on her jacket in the hallway, her hand reached for the phone. Her heart was pounding somewhere in her throat. She dialed the hospital’s number, waited for the receptionist to answer.
— Hello, Svetlana Ivanovna? It’s Volkova. I won’t be in today, I’m sick. Fever, sore throat. Yes, I know it’s sudden. Please ask Natasha to cover for me. Thank you.
She hung up and froze, listening. Not a sound came from the bedroom. Andrey was asleep. Irina quietly undressed, took off her jacket, and hung it back in the closet. She left her bag out—hid it, so if Andrey woke up, he would think she had left. She tiptoed into the kitchen and closed the door. She sat on a chair by the window, from where she could see the courtyard, and began to wait.
The minutes dragged on painfully slowly. Irina looked at the clock: 7:30, 7:45, 8:00. Dawn broke outside, a gray autumn morning, with a drizzling rain. In the courtyard, a few passersby hurried about their business, sheltered by umbrellas.
At eight-thirty, sounds came from the bedroom. Andrey was up. Irina froze, listening as he went to the bathroom, as the water ran. Then footsteps towards the kitchen. She held her breath. The kitchen door swung open.
— Damn! — Andrey flinched upon seeing his wife. — What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?
— I’m sick, — Irina looked at him calmly, though she was trembling inside. — I have a fever. I called in a replacement.
He turned pale. Literally pale, and Irina saw it clearly. His face became waxy, his jaw twitched.
— Are you… seriously sick? — his voice trembled.
— It doesn’t seem to be fatal. Just a sore throat, weakness. I decided to stay home and rest. — She stood up, turned on the kettle. — Tea?
— No. No need. I’m… going to take a shower.
He turned and quickly left. Irina heard him go into the bedroom, something fell—he probably dropped his phone. Then footsteps to the bathroom again, the sound of water. She poured herself some tea, sat back down by the window. Her hands were shaking so much that the cup clinked against the saucer.
So, she was right. Something was supposed to happen today, and Andrey was counting on her not being home. And now his plans were ruined.
She became scared. Truly scared. Eighteen years with a person, a loved one, a close one—and suddenly he becomes a stranger, dangerous. What was he planning? Did he really want to do something with the apartment? Sell it? Mortgage it? And how would he forge her signature?
Andrey came out of the bathroom, already dressed and combed. His face was still pale, his eyes darting around.
— Listen, maybe you should go to the doctor? What if it’s something serious? — he said, coming into the kitchen.
— No, it’s just a common cold. I’ll lie down at home, it’ll pass.
— But still. Maybe you should call the local doctor? Or I can drive you to the clinic?
Irina looked at him attentively. He wanted her to leave. By any means necessary. Call a doctor, go to the clinic—as long as she wasn’t home.
— No need. I’ll rest. Are you that worried about me? — a hint of irony crept into her voice.
Andrey averted his gaze.
— Of course, I’m worried. You’re my wife.
— Wife? — When was the last time he called her his wife? In recent months, she was just “you” or nothing at all.
— Alright then, rest. I’m, uh, going to work. — He darted towards the exit.
— Wait, — Irina stopped him. — You usually work from home. Why do you need to go somewhere?
— I have to… go to the bank. For business.
— What bank?
— Just some documents to sign. Nothing important.
He went into the hallway, Irina heard him putting on his jacket and shoes. Then the front door slammed.
She remained sitting in the kitchen, holding a cup of cold tea. “To the bank. To sign documents.” So, he was up to something with money, with loans. And she wasn’t supposed to know about it.
About twenty minutes passed. Irina stood up, walked around the apartment. It was empty, quiet. Only the refrigerator hummed in the kitchen and the rain pattered outside the window. She went into Andrey’s study. The desk was cluttered with papers, the laptop was closed. Irina cautiously opened a desk drawer. Inside were some printouts, contracts. She took out one paper, scanned it.
A loan agreement. Amount: 3 million. Collateral: the apartment at the address… Their address. Borrower: Volkova Irina Petrovna.
Her hands went numb. Three million. Against her apartment. In her name.
She grabbed another document. The same loan agreement, but this time with a signature. With her signature. Or rather, an attempt to forge it. The signature was similar, but Irina immediately saw the difference: too sweeping, the letters were different.
So, he had been practicing. Preparing to forge her signature. And today, Friday, when she was supposed to be at work, he was going to finalize it. Go to the bank, sign in her name, get the money.
Irina sank into a chair, feeling her legs give way. Three million. The apartment as collateral. If he didn’t pay back the money, she would be evicted. She would be homeless. At forty-three, without a roof over her head. Why?
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