— He gambled away a lot of money on cards. He owes money to very serious people. He tried to steal my money from the safe, and I called the police. He says that those people threatened you and Maxim. You need to be careful.
Silence. A long, heavy silence. Then her daughter’s voice, no longer sleepy, but frightened:
— Mom, are you serious? Is this some kind of joke?
— I wouldn’t joke about such things at three in the morning.
— Oh my God! Dad? Cards? What people?
Valentina told her everything briefly, disjointedly, stumbling over her words. About the blind fortune teller, the request in the evening, the broken safe, Gennady’s confession, the ticket to Turkey. Irina listened in silence, only occasionally gasping or sobbing.
— Mom, I’m coming over now, — she said finally.
— No, not at night. Come in the morning. And listen to me carefully: pack some things, take Maxim and your husband, and go somewhere for a few days. To his parents, to a sanatorium, I don’t know where. But until this situation is resolved, it’s better for you to be far away from here.
— And you?
— I’ll stay here. Nothing will happen to me, they don’t need me. They needed your father and the money. He doesn’t have the money, and he’s under arrest now.
— Mom, I can’t leave you alone.
— You will. For your grandson’s sake. Please, Irishka, do as I ask.
Irina fell silent, then exhaled.
— Alright. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. To Slavik’s parents. But you have to call me every day, you hear? Every single day.
— I will. Go to sleep, sweetie. We’ll talk more in the morning.
Valentina hung up, leaned back on the sofa, and closed her eyes. A leaden exhaustion washed over her, but there was not a trace of sleepiness. Fragments of thoughts, memories, and questions swirled in her head. How had she not noticed? For six months he had been playing cards, borrowing money, associating with shady characters, and she had seen nothing. Or had she not wanted to see? Attributing his absent-mindedness, nervousness, and late arrivals home to age, fatigue, problems at work.
The living room door opened, and the female police officer came in.
— We’ve drawn up the report. You need to sign it. And I have a few more questions for you.
Valentina stood up and went into the hallway. Gennady was sitting on the floor by the wall, his hands in handcuffs. The young police officer stood nearby, filling out some papers. The bag of money lay open on the floor.
— We need to count the money, make an inventory, — the female officer said. — Then you’ll take it back to the safe. You’ll have to change the lock, though.
— I understand.
They counted the money for a long time, stack by stack, writing down the amounts in the report. Three million four hundred and eighty thousand. A little less than there was—Valentina remembered there had been exactly three and a half million initially, she must have spent some and forgotten. When they finished, the woman handed her the report.
— Sign here and here. This confirms that the money has been temporarily confiscated and will be returned to you after the investigation is complete.
— What do you mean, confiscated? — Valentina took the pen but didn’t sign. — It’s my money.
— It is evidence. But don’t worry, it will be returned in a few days. In the meantime, it will be kept in the police department’s evidence locker.
Valentina wanted to object, but realized she didn’t have the strength. She signed the report, then a few more papers whose names she didn’t remember.
— We’re taking your husband away, — the woman said. — A report will be filed, and a criminal case may be opened for ‘Attempted Theft.’ You will be called in for questioning to give your testimony.
— And what happens next?
— A trial. If the case goes to trial. It might be possible to reach a settlement, considering it’s a first offense and the crime was not completed.
— A settlement, — Valentina repeated in a lifeless voice. — With a man who was going to rob and abandon me.
The woman looked at her with sympathy but said nothing.
Gennady was lifted from the floor and led to the exit. At the door, he turned and looked at his wife. In his eyes was a plea, a request for forgiveness, for understanding. But Valentina turned away. She couldn’t look at him. When the door closed behind them, she sank to the floor right in the hallway, leaning her back against the wall.
Silence. An empty apartment. And this terrible, oppressive silence. She sat like that for who knows how long—maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. Then she got up and went into the bedroom. The painting was still moved aside, the safe door was open, and it was empty inside. Tools lay on the floor: a screwdriver, a chisel. Valentina picked up the tools and placed them on the dresser. She closed the safe door and put the painting back in place. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the spot where her husband had just been lying.
Thirty years. Thirty years of marriage ended tonight. They ended the moment she saw him by the safe with tools in his hands. No, even earlier—the moment he first sat down at a card table and decided he could cheat fate.
She lay down on the bed without undressing, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She closed her eyes, and the face of the blind old woman appeared in her mind’s eye, her cloudy eyes, her hoarse voice: “Don’t give him the keys, my child. Or you will lose everything.”
Valentina hadn’t lost the money. But she had lost her husband, her family, thirty years of life together. Or had she? Maybe it was all an illusion from the beginning?
The morning came gray and rainy. Valentina hadn’t slept all night, just lay in bed with her eyes open, listening to the wind howl outside and the rain drum against the glass. The same thoughts spun in her head like a squirrel in a wheel: what to do now, how to live on, was all of this real or a terrible nightmare?
Around eight in the morning, she got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was gray, swollen, with dark circles under her eyes, her hair disheveled. She looked ten years older than she had yesterday morning. She washed her face with cold water, combed her hair, and changed into a house suit. She went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Her hands were still trembling slightly, but not as much as during the night. The adrenaline and fear had probably run their course, leaving only emptiness and fatigue.
The phone rang as she was pouring boiling water into a cup. It was Irina.
— Mom, how are you?…
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