“Almost. Gromov is finishing the last expert reports. By morning they’ll be done.”
Vera took a sip of tea. Her hands were still shaking.
“Anton Sergeyevich… how did he know? About the documents?”
The lawyer shook his head.
“I don’t know. He may have an informant somewhere around us. He may have had you followed and seen your meetings with Gromov. Or…” He stopped.
“Or what?”
“Someone at the hospital may have mentioned your visits to the old man. From there it wouldn’t be hard to connect the dots.”
Vera closed her eyes. So much caution. So much effort. And still he found out.
“Maybe I really should back off. For Masha.”
“Vera Nikolaevna.” The lawyer’s voice turned firm. “Look at me.”
She did.
“Your ex-husband is a criminal. He stole your money, bribed a judge, used his own uncle, and very likely helped send that man to his grave. If you back off now, he won’t stop. He’ll keep cheating, stealing, ruining lives. And one day—maybe in a year, maybe in ten—Masha will learn the truth. What will you tell her then? That you could have stopped him, but you got scared?”
Vera said nothing.
“I understand your fear,” he said more gently. “But think about the example you want to set for your daughter. That when someone wrongs you, you stay quiet? Or that justice is worth fighting for?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I just want her to be happy.”
“She’ll be happier with the truth than with a lie. It will hurt, yes. But it will be real. And in the long run, truth matters more than comfort.”
Vera looked down at her hands, roughened by cold water and long hours at the wheel.
“We file tomorrow,” she said at last. “And then whatever happens, happens.”
The morning came cold. The first hard frost of the season had arrived overnight, glazing puddles with thin ice and frosting car windows in silver patterns. Vera had barely slept. She had lain on Anton Sergeyevich’s couch, staring into the dark, running through every possible outcome. What if the district attorney took the case? What if he didn’t? What would Dmitry do when he learned she had gone ahead?
At seven, Gromov arrived carrying a thick file. The three of them sat at the table, spread out the papers, and checked every page one more time.
“Everything’s ready,” Gromov said. “Twenty-three documents, eighteen audio recordings with transcripts, expert certification of authenticity. Enough to open a case.”
“The question is where to file,” Anton Sergeyevich added. “Sokolov has connections in the local prosecutor’s office. If this lands on the wrong desk, it could disappear.”
“I have a contact at the regional level,” Gromov said. “Old colleague. Honest man. I’ve vetted him.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as anyone can be. It’s the best option we have.”
They went together. Vera insisted on being there in person. This was her case, her fight. She needed to see the machinery of justice start moving. The regional office was housed in an old building with columns and heavy oak doors. Vera walked the echoing hallways feeling small and insignificant. These walls had seen thousands of stories like hers—betrayed wives, cheated partners, ruined families. How many had found justice?
Gromov’s contact was a short man in his fifties with a tired face and alert eyes. He received them in a cramped office stacked with files, listened in silence, and leafed through the documents.
“These are serious allegations,” he said at last. “Judicial bribery, large-scale fraud, possibly criminal negligence or worse in connection with the uncle’s death. If this all checks out…”
“It will,” Gromov said. “You know I wouldn’t bring you junk, Semyon Arkadyevich.”
The investigator nodded.
“I know. That’s why we’re having this conversation.” He looked at Vera. “Do you understand what this means for you personally? Interviews. Depositions. Confrontations with the defense. Pressure from the accused. This could drag on for months, even years.”
“I understand.”
“And you’re ready for that?”
Vera sat up straighter.
“I’ve been ready since the moment I learned the truth.”
Semyon Arkadyevich leafed through the file once more.
“All right. I’ll take this under my personal supervision. But understand—Sokolov will fight. He has money, connections, expensive lawyers. This won’t be easy.”
They came out of the building two hours later. The complaint had been accepted. The case was open. The first step had been taken.
“Now we wait,” Anton Sergeyevich said. “And hope the system does its job.”
The system moved faster than any of them expected. Three days later Dmitry was called in for questioning. A week later there were searches at Granite’s office and at his new house—the same house that had once been the family home. Ten days later notary Polyakov was arrested. Vera followed the news through Gromov and the papers—the case had gone public. Reporters jumped on the story of the successful businessman who had cheated his own wife with the help of a crooked judge. Photos of Dmitry—drawn, older, rattled—appeared on front pages.
Vera felt something strange when she looked at those pictures. Not triumph. Not satisfaction. More like exhaustion. She had loved this man for twenty years. Had a child with him. Built a life with him. And all that time he had been preparing to destroy her. How could a person be that wrong about someone?
