I opened the apartment door and immediately noticed Kostya's shoes and jacket thrown carelessly on the pouf by the entrance. From the living room came the muted voice of a news anchor, words barely distinguishable. I stepped inside, my movements soft, and found my father sprawled on the couch, still wearing his wetsuit and dark blue pants. He had been so exhausted that he hadn't even bothered to change.
I padded across the floor to my room, set down my backpack, and peeled back the heavy lavender-striped blanket from the bed. Returning to the living room, I draped it over my father as best I could. He was so tall that the blanket barely reached his knees, leaving his long legs exposed. It was far from perfect, but it was all I could do.
On the stove, a pot of scrambled eggs simmered in a pale brown sauce with beans. I moved carefully in the kitchen, every step measured to avoid making a sound. Soon, I was sitting beside my father, quietly eating as the evening news reported on the endless nightmares unfolding in the world. For once, couldn't they show something good? Something honest?
My eyes drifted toward the TV, searching for the remote. It sat on a shelf nearby. I reached for it, intending to change the channel, but froze when Kostya's face filled the screen. My father—Kostya—was being interviewed.
I glanced at him, assessing how deeply he slept, then gently turned up the volume:
"…after the opening of the new road, the number of accidents has increased. We managed to identify the victim and contact her family, who confirmed her identity. The investigation is ongoing. The challenge is that surveillance cameras are not yet installed along the new road. We are seeking witnesses. If you have seen this girl in the past seventy-two hours, please contact us at the number displayed below."
Next to his face appeared a photo of a schoolgirl. She could have been my age. Dark hair with reddish highlights, slender. She smiled at the camera, caught in what must have been a home snapshot.
"Konstantin," the reporter pressed, "could this incident be related to three other cases involving bloodless bodies?"
My father's gaze turned icy, impenetrable. "I didn't say the victim's body was bloodless," he replied evenly.
"Could it be the work of a serial killer in Kserton?"
"There's no need to frighten the townspeople with hasty conclusions. At present, the investigation…"
A female voice cut in from off-camera: "All victims were found in the forests near the new highway, not far from the gas station and hypermarket. They share similar age and appearance, and the method of killing is alike. All lived in the northern district of Kserton. Could the killer be local?"
"We cannot rule out that possibility," my father admitted. "I'm afraid that is all I can say."
"As law enforcement officers, what advice can you offer to citizens?"
He paused, considering his words carefully. "Be wary of strangers, especially near the highway. Do not leave children unattended. Avoid going out after sunset."
"Thank you, Konstantin."
The screen shifted to a bright studio, the anchor reading the next story from her prompter. And there he lay beside me, dozing on the couch, while his own words broadcast across the city. Every mention of the new highway sent a shiver down my spine, a sense of danger prickling at the edges of my consciousness. I rarely watched the news, and perhaps that made me especially vulnerable to bad tidings, letting the pain of others seep inside me too quickly. Logically, I knew I was safe—but the feeling had taken root.
"What are you doing?"
The sudden voice startled me. I turned to see Kostya, bleary-eyed, emerging from a half-woken stupor. My father's relaxed posture and the disheveled blanket lent the room an odd sense of comfort.
"I'm looking at you. And here," I said, pointing first to the screen, then to the couch. "Should I congratulate you on your first interview?"
Kostya snorted, trying to rise. The blanket slipped from his chest to the floor.
"These reporters just follow people around all day. Big deal. I told them we didn't need a new highway in the city," he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "It would have been better to build a bypass through the green zone, away from people. But no—nature lovers across Russia signed petitions, and the governor, worried about reelection, went along with them."
"They wanted to cut through the Serebristy Reserve?" I asked.
Kostya nodded silently and moved toward the kitchen. My father poured a glass of cold water, sipping slowly.
"At school," I said, hiding my own involvement in one petition, "many are excited about the new highway."
"The forest is vital," he muttered. "The reserve status isn't granted lightly. Hundreds of plant and animal species could be at risk. Forest residents aren't like us—they can't just buy a ticket and leave."
"Who's excited?" I asked.
"Karimov, for one," Kostya began.
"Well, of course," he cut in, his tone sharp. "Dad's business is booming. Expansion is coming. He's happy about it, naturally."
"Isn't it good that the city gets more money?" I asked. "More jobs, more opportunities."
"Asya, you don't understand," Kostya's voice hardened. "The money doesn't go to the city. It goes to a few people's pockets. Everyone else bears the cost. Do you think the parents of those girls can shrug and say, 'at least the city benefits'?"
His words struck me like a whip. For a moment, I felt complicit. Perhaps he was right. How many people had joined the petition because of my emails? Ten? Twenty? Could their voices have made a difference? I couldn't be sure. If you don't fight for your own future, who will?
The apartment was heavy with silence, broken only by the rumble of the old engine outside—the neighbor returning from work. I barely stepped toward my room before Kostya's uncertain voice reached me:
"Listen, I know you had nothing to do with this. I shouldn't have said those things. It's nerves, you know?"
My father exhaled, rubbing his face. "These girls… they look so much like you. When I see their faces, I see my own daughter. I can't bear to imagine it happening to you."
The pain in his gaze was unbearable. Without thinking, I rushed to his side, wrapping my arms around his neck. I stood on tiptoe, holding him close, the stubble on his face prickling my cheek. Hugs were treacherous—easy to hide tears, easy to lose yourself. But I clung tightly, resisting the temptation to let the sobs escape.
His hand rested gently on my shoulder. Outside, the neighbor's car engine stilled.
"Promise me something," he whispered.
I nodded, pressing my chin to his shoulder.
"Take care of yourself."
And I promised—though deep down, I knew how fragile that promise was.