In its place was only a cold, earsplitting anger. Anger not so much at the lie itself, but at who he had taken her for. An idiot.
A gullible fool who could be fed any tall tale about Swiss clinics and sudden strokes while he bought mink coats for a dead woman. K. Dobrynina. The signature was confident, even brazen.
This wasn’t the scribble of a ghost. This was the signature of a woman getting exactly what she wanted. Anisa no longer believed a single word he said.
His entire confession, his sobbing on the floor—all of it was part of the game. He wasn’t just a liar. He was a pathetic, incompetent liar.
A player who leaves evidence in the pocket of his own coat. And that thought was even more repulsive. She didn’t wake him.
What would she say? Show him the receipt? And he would just invent a new story. Even more insane, even more tragic. He would cry again, beat his chest, and she would be forced to watch that circus all over again.
No. The performances were over. It was her turn to act.
Anisa carefully smoothed out the crumpled slip on her dressing table. She took out her phone, turned on the flashlight for better light, and photographed it from all angles. Clearly, so every letter, every digit was visible.
Then she just as carefully crumpled the paper back up and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. Let it lie there, a little time bomb. He must not know.
He must think she was still digesting his bitter truth. The next morning began in silence. Anisa got up earlier than usual and made breakfast.
When David came into the kitchen, she silently placed a plate of omelet in front of him. He looked disheveled, his eyes red and swollen. “Good morning,” he said quietly, with a fawning tone.
“Morning,” she replied without looking at him. She drank her coffee, staring out the window. He immediately felt the chill emanating from her.
He came up behind her, tried to put his arms around her shoulders. Anisa didn’t pull away. But her whole body tensed, became hard as stone.
“Anisa, I know this is hard for you,” he spoke into the back of her head. “What I told you… it’s a shock. It takes time to process.”
“But we’ll get through it. Together. The main thing is that there are no more secrets between us now.”
She slowly turned her head and looked him straight in the eye. Her gaze was calm, but David involuntarily took a step back. “Yes,” she said.
“No more secrets. Eat, it’s getting cold. I need to get to work.”
At the factory, the first thing she did was lock herself in her office. Here, among the familiar walls, she felt safe. She found an old number in her address book.
Igor Petrovich. A distant acquaintance of her father’s, a former investigator, now the owner of a small security firm. A man of the old school, quiet and reliable.
She hadn’t called him in years. He answered after the second ring. His voice was hoarse, unsurprised.
“Speaking.” “Igor Petrovich, hello. It’s Anisa Malinina… Nikolai’s daughter.” “Anisa. I remember.”
“Something wrong? You don’t sound like you’re calling with good news.” “I have a job for you. Confidential.”
“And very urgent.” “Go on,” he said shortly. Anisa hesitated for a moment, choosing her words.
“I need to verify a financial transaction. A purchase, paid for by card. I need to know everything—who paid, when, the exact location.”
“Maybe CCTV footage. Can that be arranged?” “Anything can be arranged. It’s a question of price and initial data.”
“I’ll pay whatever you ask,” Anisa replied firmly. “I have a photo of the slip. Where can I send it?” He dictated an email address to her.
“Send it. I’ll see what can be done.” “And, Anisa, yes?”
“Don’t get involved in anything yourself. If it smells bad, better to keep your distance.” “Thank you, Igor Petrovich. I’ll be careful.”
She sent the email and felt a slight sense of relief. She had taken a step. She had set the mechanism in motion.
Now all she had to do was wait and play her part. The next few days were torture. David, sensing her pulling away, became unbearably attentive.
He brought her coffee in bed, bought her favorite pastries, called her five times a day at work to ask how she was. This cloying concern made Anisa nauseous. She understood he was trying to atone for his guilt, but not the guilt he had confessed to.
He was trying to lull her vigilance. “You’re not talking to me at all,” he said one evening as they sat in the living room. She was reading a book; he was just watching her.
“I understand you’re angry. I deserve it.” “But the silence is killing me.”
“I’m not angry, David. I’m just thinking,” she replied, not looking up from the page. “What are you thinking about? Tell me.”
“About how fragile the truth is. And how easily it can be shattered.” He took it personally.
About his fabricated story. “We’ll piece it back together, Anisa. I promise.”
“Everything will be alright.” She didn’t answer. She was just waiting for the call from Igor Petrovich.
The call didn’t come. The tension grew. Anisa began to feel like she was being watched.
A couple of times, leaving work, she noticed the same dark foreign car parked across the street. She chalked it up to frayed nerves, to paranoia. On Friday, finishing work later than usual, she stayed late.
When she finally left the factory gates, it was already dusk. The street was almost empty. And then she saw her.
On the opposite side, under a streetlamp, stood a woman. She was dressed expensively and elegantly. A long, sand-colored cashmere coat, a neat hat on her head.
Her face was almost invisible, but her whole figure radiated confidence and coldness. She wasn’t hiding. She just stood there, looking directly at Anisa.
Anisa’s heart froze. There was something vaguely familiar about this woman. Something in her posture, the turn of her head.
David had destroyed all photos of Kira. But Anisa had seen a few pictures in his parents’ old albums. And now it seemed to her that this woman looked strikingly like her.
She was staring unblinkingly, with an icy, appraising intensity. This wasn’t the glance of a passerby. This was the gaze of a predator studying its prey.
Anisa stood rooted to the spot, unable to look away. She felt cold, scared. She wanted to scream, to run, but her legs seemed glued to the asphalt.
It lasted maybe thirty seconds. But to Anisa, it felt like an eternity. Then a taxi slowly pulled up to the woman.
She unhurriedly opened the back door, threw one last, long look at Anisa, and got in. The car pulled away smoothly and disappeared around a corner. Anisa stood for a long time, staring at the now-empty spot.
Was it her? It couldn’t be. It was madness. Her imagination, her fears had conjured this image.
She forced herself to take a deep breath and walked to her car, trying to still the trembling in her hands. She was on edge all evening. The image of the woman under the streetlamp wouldn’t leave her mind.
David tried to talk to her, but she answered in monosyllables, pleading fatigue. She felt worn out, hollowed out. Her only desire was to go to bed and fall asleep, to sink into a darkness where there was no lying and no fear.
She took a shower, put on her nightgown, and entered the bedroom. David was in the living room, watching TV. Only the nightlight was on in the room, creating a soft, cozy semi-darkness.
Everything as usual. She walked over to the bed to pull back the covers. And froze.
On her snow-white pillow, right in the center, lay a single glove. Just one. Perfectly straight, as if it had just been taken off a hand.
It was made of fine, expensive black leather, long, reaching to the elbow. A woman’s glove. Anisa had never seen a glove like this in her life, and she certainly had never owned one.
Someone had been here. In their bedroom. In her bed.
And had left this. As a calling card. As a message.
As a threat. Anisa stared at the black glove lying on her pillow. She didn’t scream.
She didn’t cry. The first wave of shock passed, leaving behind a ringing, icy void. A stranger had been here.
In her home. In her bedroom. Had touched her things.
That thought was more repulsive than the fear itself. She didn’t touch the glove. She simply turned around and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door tightly behind her as if locking a poisonous snake inside.
David was sitting in the living room. He had a peaceful expression on his face, watching some sports program. The loud, cheerful voice of the commentator grated on Anisa’s stretched nerves.
She walked over to the TV and pressed the power button. The screen went dark; the room plunged into silence. David looked up at her in surprise.
“Anisa? What’s wrong?” “Get up,” she said quietly, but in a tone that brooked no disobedience. He stood up, looking at her with bewilderment. “We need to talk.”…
