“A secure one. So it can’t be picked.”
“Understood. Two hours, wait for me at home.”
She returned home and started packing Andrey’s things. Methodically, without rushing. Clothes from the closet—into a suitcase. Shoes, razor, toothbrush, books from his shelf. Everything that belonged to him. Two large suitcases were filled quickly. Katya dragged them into the hallway, placed them by the door. She looked at the apartment. Without his things, it seemed more spacious, brighter. As if a weight had been lifted.
The doorbell rang. The locksmith arrived early, a short man in his forties with a toolbox.
“Hello! Here to change the lock?”
“Yes. This one,” Katya pointed to the front door.
The handyman knelt down, examined the lock.
“This one’s really old. Easy to pop open if someone wants to. We’ll install a good, cylinder lock. Even a professional would have a tough time with this one.”
“Install it.”
He took out his tools, started working. Katya stood nearby, watching. The old lock was removed quickly, the new one took longer to install: the handyman measured, adjusted, checked.
“Done,” he straightened up, handing her two keys. “Check it.”
Katya inserted the key, turned it. The lock clicked softly, securely. She opened the door, closed it again. It all worked.
“Excellent! How much?”
After paying, she saw the handyman out and closed the door with the new lock.
She sat on the sofa, looked at the clock. Three-thirty. Two and a half hours until the security guard arrived. Katya took out her phone, opened Andrey’s tablet, which was still on the coffee table. She took screenshots of all the messages with Lena. Photos, conversations—everything. She sent them to her email. Then she deleted the traces, cleared the history, closed the messenger.
Her phone vibrated. A message from her mom: “Katyush, are you coming to see Lenka today?”
She’s asking. Katya smirked. I wonder what Lena is telling her parents? Probably that Katya promised to come but isn’t showing up.
She typed a reply: “Can’t today, Mom. Things to do. Maybe tomorrow.”
She put her phone on silent mode. She wasn’t going to talk to anyone today. Only Andrey.
At six in the evening, the doorbell rang. Katya looked through the peephole: a large man in a black jacket with short-cropped hair stood on the landing.
“Dmitry, from the protection agency,” he introduced himself when Katya opened the door.
“Come in.”
He entered, looked around the apartment, nodded when he saw the suitcases by the door.
“Alright, here’s the plan. Your husband will come, try to get in. The key won’t fit. He’ll start ringing, knocking. You’ll open the door, I’ll be beside you. Explain the situation, give him his things. If he starts threatening, using force—I’ll intervene. Is everything clear?”
“Clear. Good. We’ll wait.”
They sat in the living room. Katya turned on the TV for background noise but wasn’t watching. Dmitry sat silently, scrolling through something on his phone.
Time dragged on slowly. At seven-thirty, a key was inserted into the lock. It turned. The lock didn’t open. It turned again, harder. Silence. Then the doorbell rang. Katya stood up. Dmitry also got up, stood next to her, slightly behind. She went to the door, looked through the peephole. Andrey was on the landing, frowning, annoyed.
“Katya, open up!” he shouted. “What the hell is wrong with the lock?”
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