“A plot in a prime location, 200 square meters of living space, all of her apartment. It would fetch about eighty million. Maybe more.”
Stepan stopped the recording. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. He sat motionless for several minutes, staring at the frozen image on the screen. Then he played it again.
“And what about the previous one?” the woman asked. “From the next town over?”
Stepan leaned forward.
“Kira?” Artem shrugged. “Nothing. She won’t be telling anyone anything anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Literally. She fell off a balcony. An accident. She was drunk, lost her footing.” He spread his hands. “It happens.”
“Good God, Artem!”
“What?” His voice turned harsh. “It was her own fault. She started digging, asking questions. Went through my phone, found our messages. Wanted to go to the police. Do I need that?”
The woman fell silent. Then she asked quietly:
“And what if this one starts digging too?”
“She won’t. She’s too stupid. Too in love. Too trusting. The perfect victim.”
Stepan pressed pause. His fingers wouldn’t obey; he missed the button three times.
Kira. Accident. Balcony.
He opened his browser and typed into the search bar: Kira balcony fall, accident. News headlines from two years ago flashed across the screen. “Young woman dies after falling from balcony. Investigation rules it an accident. Deceased’s relatives do not believe the official version.”
Stepan found a photograph. Young, beautiful, blonde. 28 years old. Unmarried. Worked as a designer.
He went back to the recording. For the next half hour, Artem and the woman named Zhanna discussed the details. It turned out that Zhanna was his long-time accomplice. They had already run several similar schemes. Artem would marry wealthy women, gain their trust, and then take everything he could. Houses, apartments, cars, savings. Some he managed to simply ‘scam’ into a divorce with terms favorable to him. Others were less fortunate.
Kira was not the only one. There was also some Olga—“slipped unfortunately in the bathroom.” And Svetlana—“overdosed on sleeping pills.” And several other names that Stepan jotted down with a shaking hand.
A serial killer. His daughter was about to marry a serial killer.
Stepan watched the recording to the end. The last fragment: Artem dropped Zhanna off at some house and said, “I’ll call after the wedding. We’ll celebrate when it all comes together.”
He turned off the laptop and sat in the dark for a long time. What should he do? Go to the police? Show them the recording? But it was his word against Artem’s. Lawyers would tear this recording to shreds: “illegal eavesdropping,” “inadmissible evidence.” Artem would hire the best lawyers and get away with it.
No. First, he had to show this to Daria. She had to see it with her own eyes.
Stepan stayed awake until morning. And in the morning, when Nadezhda came out of the bedroom, she found him in the kitchen—pale, with red eyes.
“Stepa, what happened? Are you sick?”
“Call Dasha,” he said hoarsely. “Tell her to come over. Urgently. And tell her to come alone.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just call her.”
Nadezhda saw something in his eyes, something she had only seen once, many years ago, when he returned from a crime scene where a murdered child had been found. She didn’t ask any more questions.
Daria arrived an hour later. During that time, Stepan was silent, while Nadezhda nervously paced the kitchen, not knowing what to do.
“Dad? Mom? What happened?” Daria burst into the house, frightened. “You scared me. What’s the emergency?”
Stepan stood up from the table.
“Sit down,” he said. “You both need to see something.”
“Dad, I have things to do. The wedding is in three days. Do you remember? I need to…”
“Sit down.”
Something in his voice made Daria fall silent. She slowly sank into a chair next to her mother. Stepan placed the laptop on the table, turning the screen towards them.
“I had to be sure,” he said quietly. “I know you think I’m a crazy old man. A paranoid. Maybe I am. But watch this. To the end. And then decide for yourselves.”
He pressed play and walked over to the window, turning his back. He didn’t want to see their faces. He didn’t want to see his daughter’s world crumble.
At first, there was silence—only the voices from the recording. Then Stepan heard Nadezhda gasp sharply. Then a choked sob. He turned around. Nadezhda was crying silently, covering her mouth with her hand. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking. She stared at the screen with wide eyes, unable to believe what she was hearing.
Daria sat motionless, like a statue. Her face was white, completely white. She wasn’t crying; she seemed to have turned to stone.
The recording continued. Artem’s voice spoke terrible things about Kira, about accidents, about how easy it was to kill someone and make it look like a tragic coincidence. And then Daria broke.
It was terrifying—to watch a grown woman turn into a little girl. She doubled over, wrapping her arms around herself, and wailed. Not cried, but wailed, like a wounded animal. The sound was inhuman, the sound of unbearable pain. Of a betrayal that was impossible to comprehend.
“No,” she mumbled between sobs. “No, no, no. It’s not true. It’s not him. It can’t be him. Dad, tell me it’s not true.”
Stepan went to his daughter and hugged her. She clung to him like a drowning person to a life raft. Her nails dug into his back, but he didn’t feel the pain. All his pain was for her.
“He loves me,” she sobbed. “He said he loves me.”
“He said it. He said it every day. He looked into my eyes and said it. I know, sweetheart. I know.”
“We were planning to have children, Dad. Children. He was choosing names. He said he wanted a son. That we would name him after you…”
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