Twenty years ago, he read those lines and cried. Cried from self-pity, from misunderstanding, from resentment towards his wife who didn’t appreciate his care. Now he was crying again, but for a different reason. From understanding. From shame. From horror at what he had done to the person he loved. And from the determination not to let history repeat itself.
A taxi stopped nearby, and Viktor got in, giving the address of the nearest hotel. Ahead lay a long night. Tomorrow a war would begin that he had to win. Not for himself. For the daughter he had broken without meaning to. For the wife to whom he could never apologize. To fix at least something before it was too late.
The hotel room was small and faceless, with thin walls through which the voices of neighbors and the noise of cars from the street could be heard. Viktor sat on the hard bed, staring at the phone in his hands, waiting. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since he left Grekov’s house. A whole day of inaction, which was harder for him than any multi-hour operation.
He thought about Anya. About what was happening to her right now while he sat here. About the drugs slowly destroying her consciousness. About the husband wiping his feet on her and calling her a crazy maid in front of guests. About the fact that every hour of delay could be the last.
The phone rang at seven in the evening, when it was already dark outside. The number was unfamiliar.
“Viktor Sergeyevich,” Grekov’s voice sounded tense. “I found Zoya. She agreed to meet, but only with you. She’s afraid of me, thinks I’m Arkady’s friend.”
“Where and when?”
“Today at nine. She goes out for groceries every evening at this time. Arkady allows her to leave the house only for shopping. The market on Sadovaya Street, third row. Vegetable stall. She’ll be in a gray coat and a blue scarf.”
Viktor wrote down the address and was about to hang up when Grekov added:
“One more thing. My contact in the prosecutor’s office pulled the file on the second wife, Olga. Officially everything is clean, suicide, no suspicious circumstances. But he found a record of the housekeeper’s testimony that wasn’t included in the case file.”
“What testimony?”
“She saw Arkady enter his wife’s bedroom an hour before death was announced. And saw him leave with an empty vial in his hand. The investigator recorded this, then crossed it out of the protocol. A month later, the investigator was promoted and transferred to another city.”
Viktor gripped the phone so hard the plastic creaked.
“Is this enough to open a case?”
“By itself—no. The testimony isn’t certified, the witness recanted the next day. Said she was mistaken, had bad eyesight. But if we add other evidence to this, the picture will start to come together.”
“What other evidence?”
“That depends on what Zoya tells you. And on whether you can get a sample of Anya’s blood. If traces of drugs not officially prescribed to her are found there, it will be the beginning of the end for Arkady.”
Viktor hung up and started packing. In his travel bag lay a medical kit he carried by habit left over from his military days. Syringes, antidotes, basic medications. He didn’t know if it would be useful, but he felt it would.
The taxi got him to Sadovaya Street in twenty minutes. The market was almost empty at this time; most traders were already closing their stalls. Viktor found the vegetable pavilion and waited, pretending to choose potatoes.
Zoya appeared exactly at nine. A short woman of about fifty-five with a tired face and wary eyes. Gray coat, blue scarf—everything as Grekov described. She stopped at a nearby counter and began sorting through carrots, stealing glances toward Viktor.
He approached, stood next to her without looking at her.
“I’m Anya’s father,” he said quietly. “You wanted to talk.”
Zoya flinched, although she was waiting for these exact words.
“Not here,” she whispered. “Behind the pavilion, there’s a passage to the yard. Go first, I’ll catch up.”
Viktor did as she said. He walked between the stalls, found a narrow passage between walls, and came out into a dark yard cluttered with empty crates and sacks. A minute later Zoya appeared, looking around like a hunted animal.
“I have little time,” she spoke hurriedly. “If I’m late by more than half an hour, he’ll start asking questions.”
“And if he suspects I was talking to someone?” She didn’t finish, but it was clear anyway.
“Tell me everything,” Viktor said. “From the very beginning.”
Zoya leaned against the wall, and her shoulders slumped under the weight of what she was about to say.
“I’ve been working in this house for five years,” she began. “Since the first wife. Marina was a good girl. Cheerful, kind. The first months after the wedding, she was happy. And then the changes began.”
“What changes?”
“Small ones at first: she started forgetting words in the middle of a conversation. Confused days of the week. Fell asleep in strange places, right at lunch or on the sofa in the middle of the day. Arkady told guests she was overworked. Told doctors she had sleep problems.”
Zoya swallowed.
“And then the nightmares began. She would wake up at night screaming that someone wanted to kill her. That people were hiding in the walls, that the food was poisoned. Doctors said—paranoid psychosis. They started treating her, giving pills. But it only got worse.”
“Did you see her being given these pills?”
Zoya nodded.
“Arkady personally. Every morning, every evening. He said he didn’t trust anyone else with it. That he cared about her. And she believed. Believed to the very end that he wanted to help her.”
Viktor felt cold rage growing inside him but kept himself in check. He needed information, not emotions.
“What happened then?”
“A year later, she was taken to the clinic. Arkady cried when he signed the papers. Said it was breaking his heart, but he had to think about her health. Everyone sympathized with him. Such a loving husband, such a tragedy.”
Zoya grimaced.
“But I saw him smile when the car drove her away. Saw him invite friends that same evening and celebrate until morning. And heard him telling someone on the phone that the deed was done.”
“Why didn’t you leave then?”
“Where to?” Zoya looked at him bitterly. “I am fifty-five years old. No education, no family, no savings. Arkady pays well, and there isn’t much work for people like me. Besides, I thought I was imagining things, that it couldn’t be true.”
She shook her head.
“And then the second wife appeared. Olga. A smart, strong woman. I thought she would handle him. The first months she really kept him on a leash. Argued with him, set conditions. He listened, nodded, agreed. But then I noticed her tea had a strange smell. Slightly bitter, barely noticeable. I asked the cook what he added, but the cook said Arkady prepares the tea personally. Every morning. For his beloved wife.”
Zoya wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Three months later, Olga began to change. Became quiet, obedient, confused. Forgot what she was talking about a minute ago. Cried for no reason. Doctors said—depression. Prescribed pills. Arkady gave her these pills and something else of his own.”
“Do you know exactly what he gave her?”
“I found a vial in the trash can in his bathroom. Clear liquid, no label. I wanted to keep it, show it to someone, but… Arkady noticed I was rummaging in the trash. He said nothing, just looked. That was enough…”
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