Stepan Vetrov was never mistaken about people. In thirty years as an investigator, he had learned to read human souls like open books. The wrinkles by the eyes, a tremor in the voice, an overly confident gaze—all of this was an alphabet for him, from which the words of truth and lies were formed. But now, sitting at the celebratory table and looking at his only daughter’s fiancé, he doubted his own conclusions for the first time in his life.
Maybe he was just getting old? Maybe it was the usual fatherly jealousy that Nadezhda had warned him about?
“Dad, why are you so gloomy?” Daria sat down next to him, putting her arm around his shoulders. She smelled of flowers and happiness. “You don’t like Artem, do you?”
Stepan looked at his daughter. Twenty-six years old, but to him, she was still that little girl with pigtails who asked him to read to her at night. The little girl he carried in his arms when she was sick. The little girl for whom he was ready to do anything.
“I like him,” he lied. “I’m just nervous. A wedding is a serious matter.”
“Dad!” Daria laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “You yourself said: trust your intuition, daughter. Well, my intuition says: Artem is the one.”
Stepan remained silent. His intuition was saying something completely different. Artem Krylov had appeared in Daria’s life eight months ago. Handsome, successful, courteous. The owner of a small construction company, thirty-two years old, never married. The perfect fiancé. Too perfect. Stepan had checked him through his channels—nothing. A clean record, no dark spots.
But something was scratching at him from the inside, giving him no peace. Something in the man’s eyes. They were empty, like a fish’s. He smiled, joked, was the life of the party. But his eyes remained cold.
“Stepan Andreevich!” Artem approached them with two glasses of wine. “Have a drink with me! To your daughter! To the most beautiful woman in the world!”
Stepan took the glass. Their eyes met. For a second, just for a second, something flickered in Artem’s eyes. Mockery? Superiority? Or did Stepan imagine it?
“To Dasha!” he said.
They clinked glasses. Artem smiled his signature smile and went over to the other guests. Nadezhda came up to her husband and took his hand.
“Stop it!” she whispered. “I can see how you’re looking at him. He’s a good guy. Dasha is happy. What more do you need?”
“I don’t know, Nadya. I don’t know.”
In the evening, after the guests had left and Daria had gone with Artem, Stepan sat on the porch for a long time, staring into the darkness. His cigarette had long gone out, but he didn’t notice. For thirty years, he had caught criminals. For thirty years, he had seen what people were capable of. He knew that the most terrible monsters wore human faces. They smiled, joked, gave flowers, and said the right words. And then…
“Stepa, come to bed,” Nadezhda called from the house.
He put out the cigarette and stood up. The decision had already been made. Maybe he really was paranoid. Maybe this was all foolishness. But he had to be sure.
The next day, Stepan went to see an old acquaintance, Boris, who owned an electronics store.
“A camera?” Boris raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What kind of camera?”
“A small one. Unnoticeable. Something you can hide in a car.”
Boris was silent for a long time, then grunted.
“Stepa, you’re retired. What kind of investigation is this?”
“A personal matter.”
“Alright, none of my business. I have just the thing.”
Boris reached under the counter and pulled out a small box.
“Records video and sound. Works autonomously for up to five days. It’s motion-activated, which is why it lasts so long.”
Stepan turned the device over in his hands. It was half the size of a matchbox.
“How much?”
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