At night, I went out to take out the trash. The bag dripped something sticky and foul right onto my old, threadbare robe. I should have done it earlier, instead of waiting until midnight, but the day had been long and exhausting.
First, Katjusha with her endless whims, then him… Gleb. My son-in-law. The so-called “perfect” son-in-law.
The dark courtyard hit me with a damp, musty smell mixed with exhaust fumes. A single, flickering light above the entrance barely illuminated the warped shadows stretching across the pavement.
I was almost at the garbage containers when I saw his car. Gleb’s massive black SUV wasn’t in its usual, well-lit parking spot—it was hidden deep in the shadow of an old oak tree, almost blending into the night itself.
Something felt wrong. Instinctively, I froze, clutching the stinking bag to my chest. The trunk was open, and Gleb was hunched inside, his body bent unnaturally, as if he had folded himself into three pieces.
But he wasn’t alone. Next to him, shifting nervously from foot to foot, stood a girl—a thin, pale young woman with tangled blonde hair, wearing a cheap tracksuit. Even from twenty steps away, I could see her biting her thumbnail, trembling.
Gleb straightened up, grunting with effort. In his hands was a large, elongated bundle, tightly wrapped in multiple layers of black construction plastic.He handed it to the girl with obvious difficulty.
—Hurry up, — his deep, irritated voice carried through the cold night, stripped of any civility.Together, awkwardly and hurriedly, they tried to shove the… thing… into the car. The bundle caught on the upholstery, refusing to go in.
And then it hit me. Not a guess. Not a suspicion. I understood. I saw the entire scene, as if it had been projected on a screen in front of me. This must have been how, a year ago, he carried Larisa out of the house.
His first wife. The one who “left for another,” leaving behind a short note written in Gleb’s perfect, calligraphic handwriting. No one had investigated. Why? He was charming, grief-stricken… the ideal husband.
This bundle was human-sized, and weighed accordingly.I stepped back into the shadow of the entrance. The trash bag slipped from my weakening hands and fell with a dull thud onto the wet asphalt. Gleb spun sharply at the sound.
Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. No surprise. No fear. Only cold, calculating rage—and a silent command: stay quiet.He slammed the trunk shut with force. The echo rolled through the sleeping courtyard. The girl, without looking back, slid into the passenger seat.
The car slid silently out of the courtyard and vanished into the night.I stood frozen. The cold asphalt seeping through my thin slippers was numb, but I didn’t feel it.
In my mind, a single thought reverberated, stealing my breath: he wasn’t just hiding something. He was erasing traces before moving on to the next.And the next one would be my Katjusha.I don’t remember how I got back into the apartment,
how I turned the key three times, or fastened the chain lock.My hands shook so violently I couldn’t even pour water. The glass slipped from my grip, shattering in the sink. I stared at the shards, feeling nothing but the paralyzing chill of terror.
Call the police? What would I say? “Hello, my son-in-law just loaded something… body-like… into his car”?
They would think I was insane. Gleb Vorontsov had a flawless reputation: charity, a successful business, friends in the highest offices.He had thought of everything. Always thought of everything.
The next morning, he called himself. Bright, cheerful, affectionate.—Good morning, Irena Petrovna! Did you sleep well? Katjusha and I were thinking of dropping by for lunch, is that alright?My heart skipped a beat. They were coming here. He was coming here.
—Of course, come by, — I croaked, trying to steady my trembling voice. —Something wrong with your voice? A cold? Shall I bring some lemons? — his tone was dripping with false concern, like a spider watching the fly.
Two hours later, they arrived. Katjusha chattered about nonsense, Gleb entered the kitchen with a bag of groceries.—Thought I’d treat you. Let’s make a salad, roast some meat. You relax, Irena Petrovna.
He set to work chopping vegetables—with my knife, on my cutting board, his back to me.—Katjusha said you went to bed late last night. Didn’t sleep well?
He didn’t turn. The knife tapped the board rhythmically. Tap-tap-tap. The sound was like a hammer driving nails into a coffin lid.—I… didn’t sleep well, — I murmured.—It happens. Sometimes all sorts of things get into your head.
Especially when it’s dark outside, the streetlights flicker… Makes it feel like danger is around every corner.The knife stopped. Gleb turned his head over his shoulder and looked at me. That same cold, calculating rage from the night. Only now it was mixed with mockery.
—The important thing is not to mistake such fantasies for reality. It can hurt both you and your loved ones. Katjusha is impressionable. She needs protection. From everything. From everyone.
I tried talking to my daughter when Gleb went out to the balcony “for fresh air.”—Katjusha, listen to me…—Mom, don’t start — she frowned, crossing her arms. — I see you’re upset again. You always hate Gleb.
—It’s not that! He’s dangerous!—Dangerous? How? That he loves me? That he cares for you more than your own son would? Mom, you just can’t accept that I’m happy!She couldn’t see. She was blind.
I fell silent. Any word I said could be turned against me. I’d be painted as the jealous, senile mother trying to ruin her only daughter’s happiness.Lunch passed in a haze. I poked at the salad my daughter’s killer had made, and smiled.
Gleb told funny stories, Katjusha laughed, her laughter ringing like a funeral bell in my head.When they left, Gleb lingered in the hallway, letting Katjusha go ahead.—Irena Petrovna, did you lose anything yesterday?
He held out his hand. In his palm was my trash bag from the night before, carefully tied.—It seems it fell near the entrance. I picked it up. One shouldn’t litter.He smiled his charming smile. And in that smile, I saw a death sentence. For myself. For my daughter.
Fear is a strange thing. At first, it paralyzes you. Then, when it becomes constant, it becomes the background—like the sound of rain outside. You get used to it.
I began observing. I became a shadow. I listened to their conversations, tracked where they went, who they met. My life turned into a spy novel, and the stakes were my daughter’s life.
