— “From Krylov himself, brother,” Igor lowered his voice, looking around. “Our HR department had a meeting yesterday. The boss said it straight: if Maxim Viktorovich Sokolov comes looking for a job, reject him immediately. No one in the region will hire you, not even as a watchman. You pissed off someone important, that’s for sure.”
Maxim finished his beer and went outside. The November wind hit his face. The sky was gray and low, promising snow. He took out his phone and looked at the screen. Zero missed calls, zero messages. Svetlana hadn’t answered his calls in three days.
That same morning, Vera was taking a taxi to Svetlana’s building. Next to her sat the same two men from the security service—Andrei Viktorovich and Sergei Petrovich. They were silent the whole way, only occasionally exchanging glances.
And Vera felt a strange calm growing inside her. For three years she had been afraid. Afraid of Maxim. Afraid of his mother. Afraid of scandals and shouting. But now, sitting in the car next to these silent men, she realized for the first time that the fear had receded. In its place was a cold desire to take back what was hers.
15 Zavodskaya Street turned out to be an ordinary nine-story building with peeling plaster. They went up to the third floor, and Andrei Viktorovich rang the doorbell of apartment 7. Footsteps were heard behind the door, then the lock clicked.
Svetlana opened the door in a bathrobe, with a towel on her head. When she saw Vera, her face turned pale. Her eyes widened. She tried to slam the door, but Sergei Petrovich calmly placed his foot in the doorway.
— “Svetlana Igorevna Morozova?” Andrei Viktorovich showed his ID. “Metallurgical plant security service. You are in possession of a Nissan X-Trail registered to Vera Alexandrovna Sokolova. We need the keys and the documents.”
Svetlana backed away into the apartment. Her hands were shaking.
— “I didn’t know. Maxim said the car was his, that he was getting a divorce, that…”
— “Now you know,” Vera stepped forward, her voice sounding cold, almost indifferent. “That you got involved with a man who robs his own wife and child? Give me the keys.”
Svetlana brought the keys and documents from the room, her hands trembling so much that the keychain fell to the floor. Vera picked it up, checked the documents—everything was in order. She turned and left without looking back, only allowing herself to exhale in the elevator.
That same day, Lyudmila Vasilievna was released from the detention center on her own recognizance. She walked out onto the street, pale, with trembling hands, in crumpled clothes that smelled of dampness and other people’s sweat. Two nights in a cell had turned her into a different person—broken, frightened, stripped of all her arrogance.
She walked to the bus stop near the police station, sat down on a bench, and tried to catch her breath. Her heart was beating erratically, there was a tightness in her chest, and black spots floated before her eyes. Lyudmila Vasilievna clutched her chest, tried to stand up, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. She fell right onto the asphalt, hitting her temple on the edge of the bench. The pain was sharp and brief, then a wave of heat washed over her, and everything blurred. Someone was shouting, someone was running, but the sounds seemed to come from underwater.
The ambulance arrived in 12 minutes. The paramedic, Nikolai Petrovich, a man in his fifties with a tired face, knew from one look at the patient that it was bad. A massive heart attack, critical blood pressure, a thready pulse. They loaded her onto a stretcher, started an IV right in the ambulance, and all the way to the district hospital, Nikolai Petrovich wasn’t sure she would make it alive.
In the intensive care unit, she was met by the doctor on duty, Kuznetsov, and two nurses, Galina and Olga. They worked quickly and professionally: connecting monitors, setting up IVs, giving injections. Lyudmila Vasilievna lay on the gurney, barely breathing, and heard their voices as if through cotton wool.
An hour later, when her condition had stabilized and the danger had passed, the nurse Galina went out for a smoke. At the hospital entrance stood her acquaintance Lena from the police. Their eyes met, and Lena walked over.
— “Galya, you have a Lyudmila Vasilievna Sokolova in there, right?”
