— I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it yet.
— Mom, I understand that you’re angry right now. I’m angry at him too. But he’s still my father. And your husband of thirty years.
— Irishka, he was going to steal my money and flee the country. Abandon me. You. Our grandson. This isn’t just a mistake, it’s a betrayal.
— I know. But maybe he was desperate. Maybe he was truly afraid for his life.
— Then he should have come and told me everything, asked for help. Not crept to the safe at night with a screwdriver.
Irina fell silent, then said quietly:
— You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be making excuses for him.
— You’re not the one who should be asking for forgiveness. Get some rest there, kiss my grandson for me.
The night was a bit calmer than the previous one; Valentina finally fell asleep towards morning and slept for about three hours. She woke up to her alarm at nine, got up, and got ready. She had to go to the police station.
On the way, she stopped by the church. The same church where she had met the blind beggar three days ago. Valentina got off the bus and walked to the church fence. There was no one at the gate—no beggar, no one at all. A few parishioners were coming and going from the church, but they were all strangers to her.
Valentina approached an elderly woman who was standing by the icon stall, looking at something.
— Excuse me, have you by any chance seen a blind beggar here? She used to sit by the gate, in a dark headscarf.
The woman looked at her in surprise:
— What beggar? No one has sat here for a long time. Father Mikhail doesn’t allow it; he says the church is not a place for beggars.
— But I saw her. Three days ago, in the morning. She was sitting right here, on a piece of cardboard.
— My child, I come here every day, twice a day. In the morning and in the evening. There has been no blind beggar here.
Valentina stepped back, feeling goosebumps run down her spine. There was no one? But how could that be? She had seen her, talked to her, the old woman had held her hand, told her about the keys.
She approached another person, a middle-aged man leaving the church.
— Excuse me, do you come here often?
— Every Sunday for service. Why?
— Have you seen a blind beggar at the gate? This month or last?
The man shook his head:
— No, I haven’t. And there usually aren’t any beggars here. Only on major holidays.
Valentina thanked him and walked away, leaning against the trunk of the chestnut tree. The very same one she had stood by three days ago, recovering from her conversation with the old woman. So, no one had seen her. No one except Valentina. She remembered the old woman’s cloudy eyes, her hoarse voice, the firm grip of her cold fingers. It had been so real, so tangible. She couldn’t have made it all up! Or maybe that’s exactly what had happened? Maybe she wasn’t an ordinary beggar. Maybe she was… what? An angel? A saint? A messenger from above?
Valentina crossed herself and whispered a prayer.
— Thank you. Whoever you were, old blind woman, thank you. You saved me from a mistake that could have cost me everything.
At the police station, she was met by the same female investigator, who led her to her office. Valentina gave her testimony for almost two hours, telling everything from the beginning: how she sold the apartment, put the money in the safe, met the old woman, how her husband asked for the keys in the evening, how she woke up at night and saw him by the safe.
— You said that some old woman warned you not to give him the keys, — the investigator clarified. — Tell me more about that.
Valentina told her about the meeting at the church, about the beggar’s words. The investigator wrote it down, occasionally asking for details.
— And you don’t know who this woman is?
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