— her father’s voice became even quieter, and that was more frightening than a shout.
— “Your apartment!”
Vera felt everything inside her turn cold.
— “They put documents on the table, a deed of gift. Lyudmila Vasilievna said I had to sign, that the apartment would now be in Maxim’s name. And when I refused, she leaned in and hissed right in my face: ‘Sign the deed, or your old man won’t live to see the morning. He has a bad heart, you know. He could have a heart attack at any moment.'”
Pyotr Nikolaevich stood silently for a few more seconds. Then he slowly took a phone out of his pocket. His fingers didn’t tremble; his movements were precise and calibrated, like a man accustomed to making decisions in critical situations. He dialed a number, brought the phone to his ear, and waited for two rings.
— “Viktor Semenovich, it’s Pyotr. Remember you said if I ever needed anything, I could always call? Well, I need something.”
Vera looked at her father, not understanding who he was talking to or what was happening. She knew her father as a quiet, calm man who had worked his whole life as an engineer at a factory, retired five years ago, and had since doted on his grandson whenever she came to visit.
Pyotr Nikolaevich finished the call, put his phone away, and turned to his daughter. There was something new in his eyes, something Vera had never seen before. The steely resolve and cold confidence of a man who knows exactly what to do.
— “They don’t know what I did for the last 15 years,” he said calmly, almost casually. “They think I’m just a retired engineer who fixes faucets for the neighbors and grows tomatoes on the balcony.”
— “Dad, I don’t understand,” Vera stared at her father with wide eyes. “You worked at the factory, in the design bureau.”
— “For the first 20 years, yes.”
Pyotr Nikolaevich picked up the grocery bags and nodded towards their building.
— “Let’s go, it’s cold out here, Artemka will freeze. I’ll tell you on the way.”
They walked along the snow-covered sidewalk, and her father spoke quietly, measuredly, like a man stating simple facts.
— “Fifteen years ago, Viktor Semenovich Krylov, the owner of the metallurgical plant, invited me. He offered me the position of head of security. I accepted.”
— “But you never said!” Vera felt as if reality was shifting around her, as if she had been looking at her father through frosted glass her whole life, and now it had suddenly become clear.
— “There was no reason to,” Pyotr Nikolaevich shrugged. “I was busy with my work, you with your life. I handled all the plant’s security issues, worked with the police, the prosecutor’s office, solved problems that couldn’t be solved in court. I had connections, my dear daughter, very serious connections.”
They reached their apartment building, and Pyotr Nikolaevich stopped. He turned to face his daughter. The snow continued to fall, but in the light of the streetlamp, his face seemed carved from stone.
— “I never trusted Maxim. From the first time we met, I saw how he looked at our apartment, how he calculated its worth. But you loved him, so I kept quiet. I was waiting for you to ask for help yourself. I didn’t want to interfere in your life uninvited.”
He reached out and gently touched his daughter’s cheek….
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