“A month before her death, she filed a police report. Then withdrew it. You know who it was against? Artem? No. A certain Andrei Kovalchuk. The description is a perfect match for our handsome friend. Tall, dark-haired, scar on his left arm.”
Stepan felt a chill run down his spine.
“Artem has a scar on his left arm. I’ve seen it.”
“Exactly. It seems our friend changes not only women but also names.”
“How many identities does he have?”
“I’ve found three so far. Artem Krylov, Andrei Kovalchuk, and also a certain Alexei Karpenko. All the documents are real. Not forgeries.”
“How is that possible?”
“It’s possible if you know the right people or have access to databases.”
“You think he has connections in law enforcement?”
“I think we need to be very careful.”
Stepan hung up and sat motionless for a long time. Three identities. Three names. How many victims?
At six in the evening, he went downstairs. Nadezhda was setting the table. Daria was sitting in the living room, staring into space.
“He’ll be here soon,” she said without turning. “I can feel it. It’s like… like I can feel a predator approaching.”
“You can handle this,” Stepan said.
“I know.”
At exactly seven, the doorbell rang. Daria stood up, straightened her dress, and went to open it. Stepan watched as she hugged the man who planned to kill her. Kissed him on the cheek. Smiled her most tender smile. And he realized he had underestimated his daughter. She was stronger than he thought. Much stronger.
“Stepan Andreevich!” Artem entered the living room with a bottle of wine. “Good to see you.”
Stepan shook his hand. Firmly. Maybe too firmly.
“Likewise,” he said, looking into those empty, fish-like eyes.
The game had begun.
Dinner dragged on endlessly. Every second felt like an hour. Every word from Artem was like a stab from a knife. Stepan sat at the head of the table and observed. For thirty years, he had interrogated criminals, and now he used all his skills not to give himself away. He smiled, nodded, kept the conversation going. And inside, he counted every gesture, every look, every intonation.
Artem was good. Very good. He joked, told funny stories from the construction site, praised Nadezhda’s chicken. The perfect son-in-law. The perfect actor.
“Stepan Andreevich,” he addressed him, pouring more wine. “I wanted to discuss something. After the wedding.”
“What is it?”
“Dasha and I were thinking about a joint business. A small design studio. She’s talented, you know. And I have connections in the construction industry. A perfect combination.”
Stepan nodded, trying to maintain a neutral expression.
“Sounds reasonable. But you’ll need startup capital.”
“We thought…” Artem paused as if embarrassed. “Perhaps Dasha could sell her apartment. We’ll be living together anyway. And invest the money into the business.”
There it was. Stepan felt Daria tense up beside him. But when he looked at his daughter, her face was perfectly calm.
“We discussed it,” she said with a smile. “I’m not against it. After all, an apartment is just square footage. Our future is more important.”
Artem beamed.
“This is why I love you. For your understanding.” He reached across the table and took her hand.
Stepan saw Daria flinch almost imperceptibly at his touch. But she didn’t pull her hand away. She kept up the act.
“And as for the house…” Artem continued, now addressing Stepan. “I understand it’s the family home, traditions and all that. But have you considered moving? The house is large, the yard requires upkeep. At your age, it can be difficult.”
“At my age,” Stepan thought. “I wonder how soon after the wedding you would have arranged an accident for me? A fall down the stairs? A heart attack?”
“I’m managing for now,” he replied aloud. “But thank you for your concern.”
“Well, when the grandchildren come along,” Artem winked at Daria, “you won’t have time for the garden. You’ll be busy babysitting.”
Nadezhda dropped her fork. The clatter of metal on the plate cut through the silence.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, picking up the fork. “I’ve become so clumsy.”
Stepan saw her lips turn white. Talk of grandchildren from a man who planned to kill their daughter—it was too much even for her.
“Mom, are you okay?” Daria asked.
“Yes, yes. Just tired. It’s been a long day.”
Artem looked at Nadezhda with feigned concern.
“Maybe you should lie down? Dasha and I can clear the table.”
“No, I’ll do it. You two stay seated.”
Nadezhda went to the kitchen. Stepan could hear her turn on the water—probably to drown out the sounds. Was she crying? Or just trying to calm down?
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