Grigori Andreyevich didn’t believe in hunches. Hunches were for horoscopes and bored housewives. He believed in columns of numbers, delivery slips, camera angles, and the moment when someone’s right eyelid twitched ever so slightly while lying.
For twenty years, he had run the security service of a huge logistics center. He could tell down the hallway who was just pocketing paperclips—and who was preparing a multi-million-value shipment. People were patterns to him. And every pattern had a flaw.
Except with Stas, he found none.Stanislav Igorevich Korotkov, thirty-two, his own window-installation business, nearly paid-off condo, no debts, no criminal record, no visible cracks. Polished manners. Tailored suits. Shoes that shone as if they never touched the floor.
And that polite, measured smile—warm enough to inspire trust, cool enough to maintain distance.“Grischa, why are you looking for ghosts?” Vera asked one evening as she smoothed the embroidered holiday tablecloth. “Nastjenka is happy. Look at how she looks at him. And every time he brings flowers.
Not some pitiful bunch from a kiosk—real bouquets.”Grigori didn’t answer.It was the hands.Too clean. Too smooth. Nails perfectly trimmed, skin dry as paper. And every time Stas accidentally touched the yard cat Murka, he pulled out a wet wipe. Carefully wiping each finger—like he had touched something poisonous.
A second later, he would place that same hand on Nastja’s cheek and smile.Doubt quietly gnawed at Grigori’s mind, like rust on metal.Then came that sentence.Three days ago, Stas had gone out to the balcony to smoke. He thought he was alone. But behind the heavy curtain in the living room stood Grigori—searching for his lighter.
“…yes, we’re preparing everything,” Stas said in a low voice. “She’ll transfer the apartment before the wedding. I convinced her. No, the old man won’t interfere.”The old man.Grigori froze. Maybe a misunderstanding? Maybe it was about a client? But something in the voice—that muted, calculating whisper—left no doubt.
On Sunday, Stas arrived punctually for lunch. White lilies. A smile. A kiss on Nastja’s forehead.While Vera and Nastja fussed in the kitchen, Grigori approached him.“Tell me, Stas, do you have a hand pump in your car? My tire’s flat.”
“Of course, Grigori Andreyevich.” The smile flashed. “The trunk’s open. Here are the keys.”Outside, the autumn wind swept leaves across the yard. Grigori casually opened the driver’s door. From his jacket pocket, he pulled a small black dictaphone with a strong magnet—a relic from the old days,
when he collected evidence before anyone even suspected.A quiet click.The device stuck invisibly under the seat.Three days later, Grigori sat in his garage. The neon light flickered. At first, in his ears, only the hum of the engine, radio music, meaningless chatter.
Then a call.“Yes,” Stas said.His voice was different. No velvet left—only metal.“I’m just coming from those failures.”A deep female voice answered, “Did she sign?”“Not yet. Tomorrow at the notary. I told her my business is facing lawsuits. If the apartment is under her name, it’ll be seized.
If it’s under mine, everything’s safe. Then supposedly it will be transferred back.” A short, contemptuous laugh. “The fool believes every word.”Grigori’s hands went cold.“And the girl?”“She’s annoying,” Stas hissed. “Another month. Then we fly to the sea. A lot can happen at night.
Or like with Lisa. Forest berries. She got sick. I didn’t.”Grigori yanked the headphones off as if he had burned himself.“Lisa.”That evening, father and daughter sat at the laptop until dawn. Yelisaveta Korotkova. Died three years ago. Officially: poisoning from wild mushrooms. Husband:
Stanislav Korotkov. Inheritor: her apartment.With the help of Schanna—the woman from the phone call who buckled under pressure—further details came to light. Contracts. Insurance policies. Similar patterns.The next evening, when Stas appeared with a new bouquet of lilies,
investigators were already waiting in the living room.“Stanislav Igorevich Korotkov,” one said calmly. “You are under arrest.”For the first time, Grigori saw no smile on his face—only raw hatred.Stas tried to flee. Grigori blocked his way. No hesitation. A grip, a shove—Stas hit the ground hard.
“You can’t prove anything!” he gasped.But they could.Twenty-two years in prison.A year later. Autumn at the dacha. Smoke from the grill curled over the yard in blue waves. Vera was cutting peppers, Nastja quietly laughing at something on her phone.
At the gate stood an old, clunky Niva. The bumper held on with wire, one headlight blind.A young man with glasses got out.“Excuse me,” he said awkwardly. “I’m lost. Can you tell me how to get to the main road?”Nastja went to the gate. Her smile was cautious—but genuine.
Grigori tensed. Every fiber alert.Vera placed a hand on his shoulder. “Leave her, Grischa.”“Eyes don’t tell anything,” he muttered, turning the skewers. “But a car with a wired bumper? He’s not after money. He has other problems.”Still, he pulled out his phone.
“I’m writing down the license plate anyway,” he grumbled. “Trust is good. Control is better.”
