“Stepan Andreevich,” Artem lowered his voice. “I wanted to ask you something. Personally.”
“I’m listening.”
“After the wedding… I’d like to become a real son to you. Not just a son-in-law—a son. My father died when I was fifteen. Since then, I haven’t had…” he paused, as if searching for words. “I haven’t had a man I could look up to. And you… you are someone I admire. Your experience, your wisdom.”
Stepan looked at him and thought, “My God, you are good! You are monstrously good!”
“I’m flattered,” he said.
“Really?”
“Really. But a father’s trust must be earned. Time will tell.”
Artem nodded with a serious look.
“I understand. And I will earn it. I promise.”
“You’ve already shown what your promises are worth,” Stepan thought.
The evening was coming to an end. Artem was getting ready to leave. He had an early meeting with contractors tomorrow, needed to get some sleep. Daria walked him to his car. Stepan watched from the window as they kissed at the gate. A long, tender kiss. Artem held his daughter by the waist, whispering something in her ear. She laughed.
And only when his car disappeared around the corner did Daria double over and vomit right onto the flowerbed.
Stepan ran out to her.
“Dashenka!”
“Don’t touch me!” she recoiled. “Just give me a minute.”
She stood leaning against the fence, shaking. A fine, rapid tremor.
“I kissed him,” she whispered. “I kissed the man who… who called me a ‘stupid chicken.’ Who planned to kill me. And I smiled. And I said ‘I love you’.”
“You were magnificent. He didn’t suspect a thing.”
“That’s no comfort, Dad. It’s…” she sobbed. “I feel dirty. Inside. As if he… defiled me. With his hands, his lips, his words.”
Stepan hugged his daughter, despite her resistance.
“Just a little longer,” he said. “Hold on a little longer. It will all be over soon.”
“When? When will it be over, Dad?”
“Soon. I promise.”
They went back into the house. Nadezhda was sitting in the living room, hugging herself.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said quietly. “Looking at him, smiling at him. Stepa, I can’t take it.”
“You will. We’ll get through this.”
Just then, Stepan’s phone rang. It was Saveliev.
“Yes?”
“Found Zhanna. Zhanna Petrovna Kozlova. Forty-seven years old. A conviction for fraud, served three years. Got out five years ago. Lives at the address you gave me. But that’s not all.”
“What else?”
“She used to work at the civil registry office. Ten years ago. Fired for forging documents.”
“Now I see where our friend got three sets of real documents. She made them?”
“Looks like it. And something else. I checked on Olga and Svetlana. Both closed cases, accidents. But in both instances, a few months before their deaths, they were dating men. Tall, dark-haired, charming.”
“Does the description match?”
