“Ilona, could you come to my office, please?” Sergei’s voice on the phone sounded tired, with a hint of laziness. It had been a long time since he’d called me to his office like in the old days, when we’d lock ourselves in there for half a day, ignoring all rules of decorum and giving my colleagues plenty of fodder for gossip.
A spark of hope flared in my chest, only to flicker out just as quickly. Could he have decided to leave her? Realized that things were better with me? After all, I’d always done everything he wanted, molded myself into the person he desired—both in appearance and personality. And still, I couldn’t hold onto him, no more than a flimsy fence can withstand the rush of a spring flood.
He’d met someone else—younger, with a slimmer figure and prettier hair. The fact that she could barely string two sentences together and swore like a sailor didn’t seem to matter. Now, I was like a queen in exile, relegated to receiving tasks via messenger. Sergei avoided face-to-face conversations with me, for reasons I couldn’t quite fathom. Maybe he feared I’d cause a scene, break down, or demand some kind of special treatment. Or perhaps a shred of conscience lingered in him, and he simply felt uneasy seeing the gloom on my face.
Whatever the reason, I hadn’t been summoned to the “principal’s office” in over two months. Nor had I set foot in Sergei’s luxurious two-story apartment on the third floor of a new high-rise in just as long. I was slowly starting to accept that I’d been cast aside. The pain in my heart dulled a little when I passed him in the lobby or the cafeteria. We’d slip by each other like shadows, one of us retreating to a car, the other to private thoughts and fantasies. Only in those fantasies—and the occasional dream—did he still belong to me…
***
“Ilona, you haven’t taken a vacation in two years,” he said, twirling a schedule from HR in his hand.
“Guess I’m a workaholic,” I managed to say with a faint smile.
“Well, that’s not healthy. You could burn out or get sick. How about taking a month of regular leave? I’ll even tack on another month as a business trip. It’ll give you a chance to recharge, see the world with fresh eyes…”
“A business trip?” I raised an eyebrow. “Where am I supposed to go?”
“You’re from N, right?” he said, naming my hometown, which I’d left over a decade ago.
I nodded. It was all in my personnel file, after all.
“Perfect. You can head back to your roots, visit your parents. They still live there, don’t they?”
“No, they moved to a village just outside the city.”
“Even better. Fresh air, wholesome food… You’ve been looking so worn out lately, hardly like yourself.”
“Gee, thanks for the compliment,” I thought bitterly. “Of course I’m worn out. I can’t stop wondering why you left me, what’s wrong with me. And now you’re sending me away for two months… I wouldn’t be surprised if I come back just in time for your wedding.”
“So, I’m glad you’re on board. It’s great to see you finally taking care of yourself,” he said, picking up a pre-printed form and signing it with a flourish. “Your autograph, please,” he added, sliding it over to me with a smile. For a fleeting moment, his face looked like it used to—free of that professional mask, alive, playful, youthful.
I pulled the paper toward me and signed without reading it. My hand trembled.
“Stay calm, don’t let him see how much this hurts,” I told myself.
“Alright, so what am I supposed to do on this business trip?” I asked, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. “Not much happens in my hometown. I doubt our readers care about how many chairs the local furniture factory produced or what concert some small-time band put on…”
Sergei gave a sly smile, tilting his head slightly.
“There’s a story there for us… maybe even a series of articles,” he said in that low, velvety voice that used to drive me wild just by its sound.
“Interesting,” I replied, though I couldn’t care less what had happened. Even if an earthquake or hurricane had wiped out half the town, it wouldn’t have mattered to me. I wanted to stay here, at the main office, even though every encounter with my boss and his new fling reopened old wounds, like pouring salt on raw skin.
I knew that leaving might actually be the best thing for me. But I clung desperately to my illusions—that if I stayed close, I might still change things…
“…both were found dead in their own beds,” I flinched, realizing I’d missed the start of his sentence while lost in thought. “No signs of anyone else in the houses. Nothing was taken, no foreign fingerprints, nothing at all. Just a piece of paper next to each of them, with the words typed out: ‘See you in hell!’”
“What, some kind of serial killer?” I shrugged.
“That’s unclear for now. But according to the investigation, both died almost simultaneously. They were poisoned with an unknown chemical substance. No injuries or signs of a struggle on the bodies.”
“Sounds more like something out of a ghost story,” I sighed. “You should send Yaryna instead. She’s our go-to for paranormal stuff…”
“I want you to write this piece,” Sergei said with an encouraging smile. “It’ll be a good way to break out of your daily grind, and maybe even take your career to the next level. I believe in you, Ilona. You’ve got this!”
“Drop dead,” I thought, staring into his eyes, which gleamed with satisfaction at his own cleverness. But aloud, I said:
“Thanks! Happy Valentine’s Day!”
“You too,” he replied, handing me a thick envelope. “Here’s a little gift from me!”
More than anything, I wanted to take that money (because that’s undoubtedly what was in the envelope) and throw it in his smug face. But I was long past the age where such dramatic gestures seemed appropriate. And I knew a tantrum wouldn’t change anything—it would only prompt him to say again how concerned he was for my health, maybe even my mental state this time.
I didn’t want his concern. I’d rather he forgot I existed and just moved on with his life.
So I silently took the envelope and left his office...
***
February is the most depressing of all the depressing months. At least for me. There are no real holidays, except for Valentine’s Day, but this year, all the hearts and plush teddy bears on every corner just irritated me. Honestly, most people on this planet aren’t in love. Some are lonely, some have lost their love, and others live with someone they don’t love—or even hate. Only a tiny fraction of humanity truly feels the spirit of this holiday: teenagers, young adults, and those who’ve just fallen in love and, luckily, had their feelings reciprocated. But give it a little time, and they too might be hit with the classic line: “Sorry, let’s just be friends…”
These were my thoughts as I stepped off the train at the station in my hometown. February had draped the sky in heavy, gloomy clouds. The weather felt more like fall than winter. The frosts were probably gone for good, but warmth was still a long way off. For the next few weeks, until early April, we’d be stuck with overcast skies, drizzle or sleet, impenetrable fog, and biting winds. The lack of light, warmth, and vitamins weighed on me just as heavily as the absence of love. No wonder February, according to statistics, sees the highest number of suicide attempts and murders…
I dragged my wheeled suitcase across the station square, dodging puddles big and small and trying not to step in piles of dog mess. The snow had long melted, exposing all the unattractive, unsightly things that green grass would eventually cover… but grass was still a ways off.
At the minibus stop, three people stood shivering, each keeping to themselves, hands buried in pockets, staring at the ground. The shelter was plastered with flyers and handwritten notices. “Free kittens to a good home” in a neat schoolgirl’s handwriting. “Buying antiques. Top dollar” in a bold, masculine scrawl. “Hereditary fortune teller, psychic, astro-psychologist” in ornate, rounded letters.
I stood there, wondering if I even wanted to go to my parents’ place right now. A few years ago, they’d sold their city apartment and moved to the countryside, into the old house left by my late grandparents. The village was just ten kilometers away, more like a suburb, and many people commuted to the city for work every day. But my parents were retired, fully immersed in gardening and farming, raising chickens. It was hard to believe they’d once been city dwellers who only visited the village reluctantly. Maybe it’s in the genes—perhaps one day I’d want to live in my own house, growing roses and tomatoes. But right now, the idea of going to the village held no appeal. Mostly because my parents would smother me with attention, constantly asking how I’m doing and trying to set me up with eligible neighbors. Been there, done that, as they say…
I turned around and headed toward a hotel a few hundred meters from the stop, past an old park. No, I wouldn’t tell my parents I was here for two months just yet. Maybe I’d visit them on the weekend—two days would be enough for us to get on each other’s nerves.
***
An hour later, settled into a comfortable hotel room, I sat in the small restaurant downstairs, poking at a chicken Kiev and a Greek salad with my fork. I wasn’t very hungry, though the food was tasty, and I should’ve worked up an appetite after the journey. But I hadn’t had much of an appetite for a while. It was like I ate without tasting anything. I’d felt this way when I had COVID—everything lost its flavor. That passed eventually, but after Sergei distanced himself from me, the tastes faded again, along with colors dimming and sounds growing muted… Maybe these were the first signs of depression.
Should I see a therapist? I had enough money, but the thought of detailing my feelings to a stranger made me abandon the idea.
I’d figure it out on my own somehow.
Work, they say, can heal as well as any therapist. You just have to dive in headfirst. So, without overthinking, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number of the local police department Sergei had given me before I left.
It was the contact for the public relations officer, who’d already been informed of my arrival and was supposed to provide me with all the necessary information about the two murders.
I got through quickly and arranged a meeting for tomorrow at nine in the morning. Perfect. Now I needed to sit down and jot down everything I knew about the case to organize my thoughts.
I pulled out my notebook, divided a blank page into columns, and got to work.
A few minutes later, I felt like someone was watching me intently. Was it just nerves? Still, I cautiously glanced to my right and left, then turned to look behind me. There weren’t many people in the restaurant, and none of them seemed to be paying me any attention.
So where was this feeling of being watched coming from?
I lowered my head and started writing again, but soon that unsettling sensation returned, a chill creeping between my shoulder blades, sending goosebumps down my skin.
This time, I turned sharply and caught the gaze of an unfamiliar woman staring at me intently—before she quickly pretended to be engrossed in the phone in her hand…