Stepan sat down and told them everything. Every word Zhanna said. Every detail. Daria listened in silence. Her face grew paler and paler.
“Four victims,” she whispered. “When he was finished?”
“At least four. Maybe more.”
“And I was supposed to be next.”
“You were. But you won’t be.”
“What do we need to do?”
Stepan laid out the plan. Daria was to call Artem and suggest spending the evening together. Dinner at a restaurant, then a walk—anything to get him out of the apartment for 3-4 hours. During that time, they would break in and find the safe.
“It’s dangerous,” Nadezhda said. “What if he suspects something?”
“He won’t,” Daria replied. “He’s too cocky. He thinks I’m a stupid, love-struck fool who hangs on his every word. He’ll never believe I’m capable of deceit.”
“Dashenka!”
“Mom! I have to do this. For myself. For those women. For those he hasn’t had a chance to kill yet.”
Stepan looked at his daughter with pride. She had grown up. Truly grown up.
“Tomorrow night,” he said. “Call him in the morning, arrange for the evening. We’ll get everything ready.”
Daria nodded.
“Okay. Tomorrow.”
That night, Stepan couldn’t sleep. He lay in the dark, thinking about what had to be done. About the risks. About the possible consequences.
“Stepa,” Nadezhda whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.” She moved closer. “I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
“What if…? What if something goes wrong?”
Stepan hugged his wife.
“It won’t. I won’t let it.”
“You always say that. And I’m always scared. I’ve been scared for thirty years. Every time you left for work, I wondered: will he come back? Every time the phone rang at night—I would jump.”
“I know. And I’m grateful to you for it. For every single day.”
Nadezhda sniffled.
“If something happens to Dasha…”
“It won’t. I promise.”
They lay in the dark, holding hands. Two people who had lived together for thirty years. Two people ready to do anything for their daughter.
In the morning, Daria called Artem. Stepan listened to the conversation, holding his breath.
“Darling, I miss you. Let’s spend the evening together. Just you and me. Let’s have dinner at that restaurant where we had our first date. Remember?” Her voice was perfect. Not a hint of falsehood.
“Of course, I remember.” Artem’s voice on the speaker sounded warm and affectionate. “Great idea. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“How about I come to your place instead? I want to see your apartment before the wedding. Make sure everything is ready for our life together.”
A pause. Stepan tensed.
“Okay,” Artem said. “Come over at six. I’ll show you everything.”
“Deal. Kisses.”
Daria hung up and looked at her father.
“He agreed. I’ll be in his apartment.”
“That changes the plan,” Saveliev said. “If you’re inside, you can find the safe. Or at least figure out where it is.”
“No,” Stepan cut in. “Too dangerous.”
“Dad,” Daria came up to him. “Listen to me. I know this man. I lived with him for eight months. I know how he thinks, how he reacts. If anyone can do this—it’s me.”
“Dashenka…”
“I’m not a silly little girl. I’m a grown woman. And I want to finish this myself. Do you understand? Myself.”
Stepan looked into his daughter’s eyes and saw the same determination as in his own.
“Alright,” he said finally. “But you will stay in contact. A message every fifteen minutes. If you miss even one, we’re going in.”
“Deal.”
The plan was set. All that was left was to execute it.
Artem’s apartment was in a new residential complex on the outskirts of the city. A modern building, a concierge in the lobby, surveillance cameras on every floor. Stepan parked a block away from the building and watched as Daria got out of a taxi and headed towards the entrance.
“She’s in,” he said into the radio to Saveliev, who had taken up a position on the other side of the building.
“I see her. Cameras are recording. If anything happens, we’ll have footage.”
Daria went up to the seventh floor. Her heart was pounding so loudly it felt like the whole building could hear it. She stopped in front of door number 74 and took a deep breath.
“You can do this,” she told herself. “You’re an actress. You played the love-struck fool for eight months. Play it for one more evening.”…
