“Find me this woman.” Ignatov places a photograph in front of me: old, faded, with worn edges.
I look. A pretty girl with light hair, large eyes, and regular features. The photo is at least twenty years old.
“I’m not a detective. I’m a lawyer,” I answer coldly.
“Demyan, you misunderstood.” He leans closer. “Once I helped you with a case—now it’s your turn. I have plenty of enemies. And there’s one dark incident. If it surfaces in the wrong place or at the wrong time, it’ll cause problems for me. And then for you as well.”
“I’m not getting involved in this,” I cut him off.
But Ignatov seems to let my words pass right by.
“According to my information, Nurlan was last seen in Izhevsk. You were planning to go there anyway, weren’t you?” He throws a stack of banknotes onto the table. “Take this. For expenses. Bring her to me. And the child she gave birth to.”
My trip home didn’t give me what I’d gone for: I couldn’t find either Nurlan or her child. But on the way, I ran into a girl who’d gotten herself into serious trouble. At first it seems like it’s just a chance encounter. Until, one day, she notices a photograph in my car. The same one.
“Where did you get this?” she takes the picture in her hands.
“None of your business,” I snatch it back sharply.
She says nothing—just watches, her lips barely trembling.
“It is my business, actually.” Her voice is dull. “That’s my mother.”
The book contains profanity!