— Deniska, my dear, where did you disappear to? — an anxious voice came through the phone. — We waited and waited for you yesterday… The shashlik got all cold. What happened?
— Alisa got sick, — he lied. — We had to go to the hospital.
— Oh, what’s wrong with her? Is it serious?
— No, probably food poisoning. Everything’s fine now. We probably won’t be able to come today.
— Well, that’s a shame, — his aunt sighed. — I hope your Alisa gets well soon. We’ll just hang out here by ourselves then.
He hung up.
— See, — Zoya Pavlovna said spitefully, — we didn’t even get to the dacha because of her. The whole trip ruined.
Denis looked at his mother, and two feelings battled within him: habitual filial love and a growing irritation. He knew that she was largely to blame, that her stubbornness and cruelty had led to this catastrophe. But she was his mother. The only person he had, as he had believed until yesterday.
— I’m still going to call her, — he said firmly.
He dialed Alisa’s number. Long rings, no answer. He dialed again. And again. Useless.
— She’s not picking up, — he said, bewildered. — She’s probably asleep.
— Or she doesn’t want to talk to you, — Zoya Pavlovna remarked sarcastically. — Her highness is offended.
She went to the kitchen and started clattering dishes. Denis kept dialing his wife’s number over and over. He sent her a dozen messages: “Alisa, forgive me,” “I was wrong,” “Let’s talk,” “Please answer.” But there was no reply.
Meanwhile, at Aunt Valya’s dacha, a small company had gathered: the aunt herself, her husband, and their neighbors. They sat on the veranda, eating cold shashlik and discussing the latest news.
— It’s a shame Deniska and his family didn’t come, — Aunt Valya sighed. — I was looking forward to seeing them.
— So what happened? — a neighbor asked.
— He said his wife got food poisoning.
— Ahh, — he drew out the sound. — But I heard a different story.
Everyone turned to him. The neighbor, a man in his sixties, worked as a security guard in their dacha community and knew all the gossip.
— My cousin just called me. He works for the traffic police. He’s on the highway. Says they stopped a white crossover this morning, reported stolen. And inside were a guy and his mother. Can you imagine?
— No way! — Aunt Valya gasped. — And what happened next?
— Well, it turns out the car belongs to this guy’s wife. And they had kicked the wife herself out on the highway a few hours earlier. She had appendicitis or something. Basically, they left her to die and drove off. She reported it to the police.
Silence fell on the veranda.
— My God! — Aunt Valya whispered. — It can’t be! Deniska and Zoya!
— So much for food poisoning! — Aunt Valya’s husband snorted. — So they finally got what was coming to them.
The news spread through the dacha community like wildfire. Within an hour, everyone knew. And by evening, the rumor had reached their relatives in Dnipro.
Zoya Pavlovna’s phone started ringing off the hook. Her sister called, her cousins, her nephews. Everyone asked the same question: “Zoya, is it true?”
At first, she denied it, shouting that it was all lies and slander, but then, under the pressure of the facts that the callers recounted to her, she broke.
— Yes! — she screamed into the phone at her sister. — Yes! We kicked her out! Because she’s a faker and a hysteric! She wanted to ruin our lives, and I taught her a lesson!
After that conversation, she threw the phone on the sofa and burst into tears. Denis sat beside her, his head in his hands. He felt his world collapsing. Shame. That’s what awaited them. Universal shame. They had become the heroes of a dirty, ugly story that all their acquaintances would now be discussing.
He picked up his phone again and dialed Alisa’s number. This time, someone answered.
— Hello! — a cold, unfamiliar male voice said.
— Hello. May I speak to Alisa? — Denis asked, confused.
— She’s not available. Who is this?
— This is her husband, Denis.
— Ah, the husband? — there was a sneer in the voice. — Regards to the husband. Don’t call here again. Alisa will not speak with you. All questions should go through her lawyer.
— What lawyer? — Denis didn’t understand.
— Mine. That is, hers. I’m her brother and her lawyer. And I strongly advise you not to bother my sister anymore. Otherwise, charges of harassment will be added to the car theft and endangerment. Do you want that?
The line went dead. Denis slowly lowered the phone.
— Brother. Lawyer.
It was all over. The trap had sprung shut.
The police station greeted Denis and Zoya Pavlovna with the smell of institutional paint, stale coffee, and human despair. They were taken to separate rooms. Denis got a young investigator with tired eyes who silently pointed him to a chair and began asking questions. Denis answered haltingly, getting his story mixed up. He tried to protect his mother, saying it was a joint decision, that they didn’t think it was so serious.
— You didn’t think? — the investigator looked up at him. — Your wife was in a life-threatening condition. This has been confirmed by a medical report. You abandoned her on a deserted highway without help. Do you think that’s serious?
Denis was silent, his head bowed. He was ashamed. Ashamed and scared. For the first time in his life, he was facing the ruthless machine of justice, and it was slowly but surely grinding him down.
In the next room, Zoya Pavlovna behaved differently. She screamed, waved her arms, and blamed everything on Alisa.
— It’s her, the provocateur! — she shrieked at an elderly, gray-haired investigator. — She set all this up to get her hands on the apartment!…
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