The knock on the door came again, louder.
— Open the door! Police!
Valentina stood motionless, looking at her husband. And he looked at her, and in his eyes was so much pain, so much betrayal, that she wanted the ground to swallow her up. But she didn’t back down, didn’t look away. And she was the first one to go to the door.
Valentina turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Two people stood on the threshold: a young man in uniform and an older woman, both with serious faces. The young man was the first to cross the threshold, looking around the hallway, his gaze settling on Gennady with the bag in his hands.
— Good evening! We received a call from this address. Did you call?
Valentina nodded, unable to find her words. The female police officer entered the apartment, closing the door behind her.
— What happened?
— He… — Valentina pointed at her husband. — My husband broke into my safe. My money from the sale of my apartment is in there. He broke the lock and took everything.
Gennady stood against the wall, clutching the bag to his chest. His face was gray, his forehead gleaming. He was silent, just breathing heavily.
— Sir, show me what’s in the bag, — the young police officer stepped closer.
— It’s my money, — Gennady said hoarsely. — Our family money.
— Not yours! — Valentina cried out, her voice breaking. — It’s my inheritance from my mother’s apartment. You had no right!
— Sir, open the bag, — the officer repeated more sternly.
Gennady slowly lowered the bag to the floor and unzipped it. Inside were neat stacks of bills, bound with bank wrappers. The female officer squatted down, looked inside the bag, then looked at Valentina.
— Is this your money?
— Yes. I sold my parents’ apartment two months ago and put the money in the safe. Three and a half million.
— Do you have documents to prove it?
— Yes, I’ll get them now.
Valentina walked into the bedroom on wobbly legs, opened the dresser drawer, and took out a folder of documents. The sales contract, a receipt for the money, a bank statement. Everything was neatly filed and organized. She brought the folder to the police officers. The woman flipped through the documents, nodding. The young officer stood next to Gennady, keeping his eyes on him.
— The documents are in order. The money is indeed yours, — the woman closed the folder and looked at Gennady. — Sir, can you explain why you were trying to steal your wife’s money?
Gennady remained silent, staring at the floor. His jaw was clenched, and muscles twitched in his cheeks.
— Answer the question.
— I needed the money, — he finally forced out. — I needed it urgently.
— For what?
Valentina stepped toward him, but the officer raised a hand, stopping her.
— Gennady, why did you need the money so urgently that you were willing to rob your own wife?
He looked up at her, and there was so much anguish, so much desperation in his eyes that Valentina felt a pang of pity for a moment. But only for a moment.
— I gambled it all away, — he said quietly. — I lost it all playing cards. I owe money. A lot of money.
Silence. Valentina stared at him, not believing what she was hearing.
— What? — she whispered. — You? Playing cards? When?
— For the last six months, — he ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking ten years older. — Vadik from work got me into it. He said it was just for fun, small stakes. It was like that at first. I even won. Then I started losing. I thought I’d win it back, so I borrowed money. I didn’t win it back. I borrowed more. And more.
— How much? — Valentina asked, her voice icy. — How much do you owe?
Gennady paused, then exhaled:
— Two million.
— Two million? — She grabbed the wall to keep from falling. — Two million?
— Yes. And it’s not a bank, Valya. Not a payday loan. These are… these are serious people. They gave me until tomorrow. Said if I don’t pay it back, I’ll only have myself to blame.
— My God! — she covered her face with her hands. — Oh my God!
The female police officer exchanged a look with her partner and took out a notepad.
— When and where did this happen? Give us the addresses, the names of the people who lent you the money.
Gennady gave an address—the basement of some café on the outskirts of the city, and names: Vadik, Seryoga, someone else nicknamed Byk (the Bull). The woman wrote it down, asking clarifying questions.
Valentina listened and didn’t recognize the man who was speaking. Was this her husband? Gennady, with whom she had lived for 30 years, who had always been so proper, so responsible? A former military man, an officer, a man of honor? A gambler? A debtor?
— And what were you going to do with my money? — she asked when he fell silent. — Pay off the debt and go on living as if nothing had happened?
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