The rest of September passed in a tense haze. The longer the police struggled to track the killer, the more strained my relationship with Kostya became. One evening, as I sat in my room, I overheard my father speaking loudly on the phone. The door was closed, so I caught only fragments of the conversation. From what I could gather, tracing the mysterious murderer was proving difficult. My father believed that private security cameras near the gas station parking lot might provide a lead. The trouble was, the cameras belonged to the Karimov family hypermarket, and Nikita's father was reluctant to cooperate—though why, I couldn't fathom. The last body had been discovered not far from the store. Did the murder affect sales? I wouldn't have been surprised if locals had begun avoiding anything remotely connected to it. Even the thought of going back to the supermarket made my stomach tighten, though I knew lightning rarely strikes twice in the same place.
The tension between our fathers inevitably seeped into my life with Nik. Kostya was adamant: I was forbidden to come near the supermarket, and he stressed just how dangerous another reckless bike ride through the woods could be. Despite his busy schedule, he still managed to pick me up from school most days. On the rare occasions he couldn't, his colleague—a young, fair-haired investigator in his tight navy shirt and open raincoat—filled in. I secretly preferred those days; at least his steady gaze didn't linger on Nik as we parted ways in the parking lot.
Over time, Nik and I began sitting together in class more often. At lunch, we would drift away from the crowd, talking about things that truly interested us. Nikita was not only a captivating conversationalist but also an attentive listener. It was strange, almost thrilling, that someone cared about my thoughts and opinions. He asked questions, sparked debates, and we effortlessly bounced from ecology to history, from the merits of paper versus digital books to films. Sometimes I doubted he had seen much of anything at all—but he listened with genuine curiosity, and that alone mattered. One afternoon, he invited me to the cinema. I would have agreed immediately, but I knew Kostya's iron grip on my freedom wouldn't allow it until our fathers reached some sort of truce.
Until mid-October, my days followed the same rigid rhythm: school, home, repeat. On one hand, the confinement improved my grades and made me focus on the apartment. Boredom led me to explore bookshelves, sort old belongings, and pack them for charity. With my father's approval, I even ordered new curtains and dishes, adding little touches that began to breathe life into the space. Among the rediscovered treasures was a long-forgotten vinyl player and a box of records. To my surprise, the collection included classical music, jazz, and even a Frank Sinatra Christmas album—so the apartment constantly echoed with "Let it Snow," even though no snow had yet touched the city streets.
Yet, the apartment could not replace the world I had left behind. I had arrived in Kserton seeking a fresh start, only to feel like a princess trapped in a lonely tower. Even as school connections slowly strengthened, the scent of solitude lingered in my empty rooms. Scrolling through my classmates' social media in the evenings, I saw snapshots of lives so different from mine: girls walking together, boys bowling or at the shooting range, hundreds of happy faces filling my feed. It was as though some unspoken celebration of life had left me behind. Being a policeman's daughter had made me a prisoner, not in law, but in circumstance.
Worse still, my old friends from Rostov seemed to vanish from my life in perfect synchrony. Out of sight, out of mind. My attempts to revive our conversations were met with short, clipped replies, as if every character came at a cost. Two of the three eventually stopped opening my messages altogether. I felt like an outsider among friends I had known for years—a stranger in my own past.
At first, I accepted Kostya's strictness, thinking it was temporary. A week would pass, and everything would return to normal. Ten days later, the truth hit me: life was not waiting for me. Graduation approached, and I cautiously began to plead with Kostya, explaining the importance of my senior class, showing photos, making arguments. Soon, the carefree days of youth—the simple joys and idle moments—would be gone, replaced by exams, applications, and the relentless march toward the future.