Maxim was silent. The men nodded, got into the car, and drove away. He was left standing at the entrance, clutching the printout, and realized that everything was collapsing, that the walls he had been building for three years were crumbling like a house of cards.
At the same time, Lyudmila Vasilievna Sokolova was sitting in a police investigator’s office, not believing her ears. Marina Olegovna Stepanova, a woman of about forty with a tired face and attentive eyes, placed a statement in front of her.
— “Pyotr Nikolaevich Sokolov has filed a complaint against you for extortion, death threats, and attempted fraud,” Marina Olegovna spoke in an official tone, but her eyes showed unconcealed contempt. “We have an audio recording of your conversation with his daughter.”
She turned on a voice recorder. Lyudmila Vasilievna’s voice, clear and angry, came from the speaker:
“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.”
Lyudmila Vasilievna turned pale. She remembered that conversation. Remembered how Vera had sat there, pale and frightened. How the notary, Valery Petrovich, had laid out the documents on the table. But she didn’t know she was being recorded.
— “That’s not right,” she tried to protest, but her voice trembled. “I didn’t mean it, I was just trying to scare her into signing.”
— “‘Death threat’ is Article 119 of the Criminal Code,” Marina Olegovna closed the folder. “Up to two years in prison. Extortion is Article 163. Up to four years. Do you understand the seriousness of the situation?”
Lyudmila Vasilievna was placed in a temporary detention facility. The cell was small, with bunk beds and a dirty toilet in the corner. There were three other women in there with her. Two young ones, detained for theft, and an older one, Zinaida, who had been caught with drugs.
— “What’s up, grandma, trying to take apartments from old folks?” one of the young women, with dyed hair and a tattoo on her neck, looked at Lyudmila Vasilievna with open hostility. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
They tormented her all night. Pushing her, calling her names, not letting her sleep. Zinaida, the senior inmate in the cell, brought a bowl with leftover soup in the morning and poured it over Lyudmila Vasilievna’s head.
— “This is for hurting old people, you scum!” Zinaida spat to the side. “My mother had a weak heart just like that. She died because there was no medicine. And you’re here seizing apartments.”
Lyudmila Vasilievna sat on the bunk, cold soup dripping from her, and she cried. For the first time in many years, she cried not out of anger or resentment, but out of fear and humiliation. And she understood that this was only the beginning.
Maxim visited five factories in three days. Everywhere he was met politely, asked to fill out a form, and promised a call back after his documents were checked. And everywhere, a day later, the same response came: “Unfortunately, the position has been filled. We will contact you if anything becomes available.”
On the fourth day, he was sitting in a bar on the outskirts of the city, drinking cheap beer and trying to figure out what to do next. His money was running out. His last paycheck was dwindling by the day, and emptiness loomed ahead.
At the next table sat his former classmate Igor, who worked as a foreman at a mechanical plant.
— “Max, are you crazy?” Igor moved to his table, already quite drunk, with red eyes and the smell of stale alcohol on his breath. “I heard you got kicked out of your job. Do you know there’s a flag on your name?”
Maxim looked up, something tightening in his chest.
— “What flag?”
