I meet a girl in a light green vest. Little, she pulled her scarf down to her eyes. In the hands of a leaflet with a blond girl. The volunteer meets my gaze, hooks it like a fishhook to my lip: her eyes are as if she herself was lost, or she is looking for herself.

So, another unloved one is gone. At this age, they run away on their own most often. So Mila can give birth to such. Thoughts about how many more of them are around, such desperate women, and such hated children, clog the mind, swell under its stretched shell. And then these kids grow up and start hurting others. Like me.

The trees part before the edge of the park. I dial Elisha's number. He listens carefully. He promises to do everything. And again asks to talk to his father.

Reversed. I return to the store. Before the door slides open, the eye stumbles over a leaflet with a photo attached to a display board with general information. The sticker on the glass half covers the face of the missing woman, but I already feel uncomfortable.

Ning! - I stand in front of the stand and look at the eyes and lips of the girl in the photo. – Nina!!!

What? What happened? Bone? Her frightened face at my shoulder.

Who did this? - I press my index finger into the inscription: “Missing”, as if trying to pierce it through and through.

God, you screamed so much. I was scared to death.

Who the hell did this?

Young woman. Volunteer girl. She asked. Everything is good. Tatyana Vladimirovna said that it was possible.

I'm on the street. Find a girl in a light green vest in a white and black landscape of snow and trees. Rishu.

Ahead. Slightly to the right. He grabbed his curly hair with a glance. A few meters from her. I overcome with one throw.

For the elbow. I turn to myself. With such strength that she can hardly keep her feet. I don't let her fall. And I won't let you leave until he answers. There is the same confusion in her eyes. An attempt to say calmly descends into a wheeze:

You ... - exhale-inhale. – Did you paste the flyer in the store?

I was allowed. Please release my hand.

Who gave them to you?

Group.

What a group?

Operative-investigative. Her organizer. Alexander Dmitrievich. Let go please...

Which Alexander Dmitrievich? - I swear. It pisses me off that she's talking to me through a scarf. Like through a medical mask. And I can't see her lips. Are they mocking me, smirking? I squeeze harder. Confusion sinks in her eyes, and anger appears in its place.

Let go! She pulls her hand away with all her might. Falls a step back. Catching balance.

I grab the flyers from her bare fingers. I go through them in a hurry. They crumple, do not fall under each other. Because the hands of the traitors are trembling like those of an old alcoholic. There's just a stack of wanted ads for a blonde girl.

It's others. Why did you stick that one on? - He stared into her eyes. She is silent. Looks upside down. - Why? You. Pasted. That.

And what? What do you care about this girl? - with a challenge. It even moves forward. Her hand clutched at the scarf. It's like he's choking her. Like she wants to rip it off. And spit in my face.

Specially. You did it on purpose.

"She's been dead for a long time." I take a step towards her. “And don't tell me you didn't know.

I knew! - blurts out. I wanted to see your reaction!

I grab the girl by the shoulders. I raise. She no longer owns her body. Helpless and mine. I carry it away from the road. Through the snowdrift. Until I put my back against the fence.

Holds head high. Staring at me with frightened eyes. The pupils are constricted into small dots. They seem to be smaller than a normal person. Or maybe the circle of the iris is just too light. Her forehead bulges with wrinkles.

"You're responsible for her death," she says through her scarf.

And at the same moment she closes her eyes, because I hit the fence with my fist. Next to her face. It rang, boomed, like a metal sheet torn from a height. Snow fell from the trees that were resting their branches against him. On her head, on curly hair, on narrow shoulders.

I yank the scarf off her face. She opens her mouth as if the fabric was preventing her from breathing.

Who are you?

Only chuckles. Evil. Like she's on the verge of insanity.

I read about you. The killer was never found. The killer was thwarted by rich dad. So?

What are you talking about, stupid?

Your dad? Or your fiancee's dad?

I bring my face closer to her.

Stay out of my family.

But the fact that? - with a defiant smile.

A shiver crawls under every finger. I can no longer control myself. The girl closes her lips. Swallows. Whispers:

I won't leave you alone.

Suddenly her face changes. Becomes pitiful. Lips curl up. She looks like she's crying now.

"I'm dreaming about you," she wheezes.

What?

The way you touch me.

Yes, she's not normal.

I run my fingers along her chin lightly, up, put my hand on her hot skin - my palm is one and a half times larger than her cheek. The girl closes her eyes as if from pleasure. It's like she's been waiting for this touch all her life.

So? I ask. - Or so? My hand slides down and I squeeze her neck. She grabs my wrist. “If I see you again, I will hit you.” You understood?

I'm letting go. So, as if I don’t give her air, but I take it. As if she would collapse not into the snow, but from a cliff.

The girl slips beside her and disappears behind the bushes. I step to the side of the road and look after her.

She may have stumbled upon the article by accident. The photo on the flyer is from there. But she's probably one of those fucking journalists. Another. Or by itself?

As if she knew Masha personally, and only now she realized who was to blame for everything.