6

 Laura? Laura Marshal? She's back? But what are you talking about? Marcel, surprised, clutched the receiver, which was slippery and damp with sweat, to his ear with all his might. "No, that's impossible. Laura's coming back tomorrow. She wouldn't lie to me."

The secretary, seeing that her boss was having a rather private conversation this time and that her notebook and pencil wouldn't be needed this time, discreetly retreated to her office, leaving the door slightly ajar just in case. But not so much that Marcel was certain she couldn't hear a word.

And yet..." The voice on the other end was terrifyingly calm, seeming utterly certain of what he was saying. "If you don't believe me—and I have a feeling you do—see for yourself." Laura returned this morning on the 7:30 a.m. flight from Florida. You can check the passenger list.

Who are you? How do you know that?

Who am I? It's really unimportant, laughed the mysterious voice on the other end. "How do I know? That's my job—to know.

I don't understand...

And you don't have to. Goodbye.

But..."

But the receiver had already been hung up. There was no one Marcel could speak to. And standing with an empty receiver in his hand, staring at it, made you look a bit foolish. And Marcel, more than anything in the world, hated feeling and looking foolish. Giving the unexpected end of the conversation a semblance of normalcy, Marcel slowly replaced the receiver, plastered his usual, businesslike smile on his face (yes, yes, his upbringing in the City definitely made itself felt everywhere), and politely addressed his secretary, who, seeing the light go out, slipped into the room unnoticed.

Margie, please get me the list of passengers who arrived on today's 7:30 flight from Florida directly to California.

It's ready. Direct flight?

Yes, direct. I'm mainly interested in first class, but just in case, get everything.

You'll have a printout in fifteen minutes at the latest." As always, Margie was competent and composed, the kind of secretary who could last more than six months at Marcel's company. And probably a good thing, since Margie had already worked there for five years. And there was no sign of any imminent dismissal...

Thank you. I'll be at home.

With that, he headed for the door. He closed it gently behind him and collapsed helplessly onto the expensive leather sofa beside his desk. A thousand thoughts swirled in his head. Laura? His wonderful, one-of-a-kind, beloved Laura? Was she cheating on him? How was that possible? And why? She loved him, or so she claimed. He was the man in her life, the best and most wonderful she'd ever known. Why was she doing this to him? And with whom? She didn't know anyone he didn't know... Marcel vaguely recalled the man from outside the City, the wimp at whose expense Laura had once had such a wonderful time. Which, by the way, he had a significant hand in. Was it all just a game on their part? Perhaps she was still seeing that zero? No, that wasn't possible. It was definitely a mistake. And how did that voice on the phone know so much? How did it know about their relationship? How did it know how to hurt him? Who was he? Marcel knew there was no point in tracking him down; he certainly hadn't left any trace behind that could lead to him in any way. They were usually so clever, cleverer than the City residents. Outside the City... yes, Marcel had a vague feeling the caller wasn't from his circle.

Please—he rose at the knock. "Come in, Margie.

Here's the list you asked for.

Thank you.

Do you need me again?"

Margie knew Marcel often liked to sit after closing time. He claimed that was when he came up with his best ideas, the ones that had led to his stunning success in such a short time.

No, thank you, you can go home.

See you tomorrow then.

Good night, Margie.

Behind the secretary, the door closed quietly and soundlessly. Marcel stood, unable to move, unable to bring himself to look at the stack of papers in his hands. He knew, he simply knew, what he would find there. He didn't need to look to know, to feel that the voice on the phone spoke the truth. Yet slowly, like a blind man, or someone just awakened from lethargy, unsure of where he was or why he was there, Marcel walked around the desk and sat down in the chair. He pulled the densely printed stack toward him, switched on the lamp, and began to study it meticulously, item by item, name by name, first name by first name. Marshall, Laura... Bitch!!! She mocked him!!! How dare she! She'd made him a laughingstock. Him and his ego. And his reputation. Marcel knew she'd pay dearly for this. Above all, she'd never belong to the City again. Not just to his entourage, to the elite who had always surrounded him, but even to the City itself. She might forget she ever knew him. He needed a wife he could always count on, a wife with an impeccable reputation, a wife who would always be there for him, who would never let him down. A wife who knew her place, who knew what was right and what wasn't. A wife who would never make him a laughingstock like she had. You'll pay for this. You'll pay dearly.

Marcel slowly put on his coat, carefully tucking away the papers. He turned off the lights, and instead of heading back to his apartment as usual, he got into the elevator and went downstairs. "

Hello, Joe," he said to the guard, who, if surprised by Marcel's departure, didn't show it.

Mr. Maddison," the guard bowed. "Will you bring a car?

Yes, please."

A moment later, the car pulled up to the entrance. "

Are you going for a drive?"

"No, I'm going to the store. I need to buy fresh milk.

So, I wish you a quiet and safe drive.

Thank you, Joe.

" Marcel got into the car, unclenching his clenched fists. "Easy, just easy," he admonished himself quietly. "You can't cause an accident. And remember, no one can notice anything.

I'm a successful man, after all. There's nothing I can't do.

" He slowly moved forward. "You'll remember me, you'll remember," he muttered indistinctly. "You'll remember."

(...poor Laura...)

This time, she was as innocent as she could be, and yet she managed to earn the hatred of two men. Men who seemingly had nothing in common. Men who hated each other. Well, at least one of them certainly hated the other. And the other had only a vague idea of the first's existence, if any at all. And who—thanks to her—were united in thought for that one moment, became partners in a single, shared crusade. Each of them dreamed of making Laura suffer, of making her suffer as much as possible. To punish her.... Capable Laura.

How did she do it...)

Laura felt herself slowly starting to lose her mind, or something similar. In every corner she saw the snake, on every side she heard its breathing, the breath of the beast that was slowly, but stubbornly, and mercilessly, closing in on her. From every side, it seemed to her, the beast's large, burning, red eyes were staring at her... I had to calm down. I had to stay alert, I couldn't lose my mind, I couldn't stop thinking for anything in the world. And most importantly, I couldn't give up. If I could somehow make it through the night, then I was saved. Then Marcel would come. He would surely get into the apartment somehow. And he would save me. Oh, Marcel, Marcel," she sobbed. "Why did I do it? Why didn't I call to say I was coming today? Why? But this was no time for regrets. From behind the door came a rustling and clattering sound, as if something heavy was sliding across the floor, as if something incredibly heavy and powerful was desperately trying to break through the barricade, to enter, to reach her hiding place. At all costs. Laura knew the reptile wouldn't rest until it had her. He was definitely hungry. And hunger certainly fueled him. And rage. His slithering into the kitchen was only a matter of time. Five minutes? An hour? A few hours? Laura didn't know, and she didn't want to think about it. It was good that at least she had a light. She would have gone crazy if it suddenly went out. Matches? Maybe I have matches? Better than nothing. Gently, slowly, the woman lowered her bare feet to the ground. Almost silently, she slipped toward the nearest cupboard, then further, further, slowly, delicately, carefully... All the way to the window. Yes, there were always matches in that drawer by the window. With a shred of hope choking her throat like a huge, choking but unspittable ball, Laura opened the drawer with trembling hands. "There they are! She'd found them! There are matches. Full of small, hopeful boxes. Maybe if she decided to start a fire, there was a chance someone in the street would notice? Maybe then someone would call the fire department? Someone who would come and save her. It was very late, and at this hour in the City, there were only a few passersby on the streets, but there was always a slim chance of survival. Better than sitting idly by and waiting for me to go mad, or for that beast to get me," the desperate woman muttered to herself. She reached out and, in that same moment, realized with terrifying clarity that the boxes were empty. He knew it even before she touched the first one, before she felt its weight, or rather, the lack of that familiar weight in her hand. She knew the boxes were empty. And in any case, she knew that even if they weren't empty, they certainly didn't contain matches. She was afraid to open them, afraid to see her suspicion confirmed, afraid of what awaited her. But at the same time, she knew she had to do it. That she couldn't give up. What if she was wrong? What if the boxes actually contained matches? What if she said "No," what if she didn't touch them?What if she didn't open even one? What if this reckless act caused her to lose, to squander what might be her only chance for rescue? On the other hand, who knew what was really in there? Tiny creatures like spiders or cockroaches could easily fit into such boxes. And Laura was too afraid of all the small, crawling creatures to risk releasing them here, in the kitchen, from which she had no way of escaping. What to do? What to do? Maybe this is my only salvation? Maybe this is my only chance? My only hope? There's still Marcel, whispered a voice in her head, a weak, almost fading voice of hope. But another, more real, knowing voice, a voice of prudence, or perhaps fear—Laura wasn't about to dwell on this one—said: You know that even if Marcel arrives, it will be too late. You know you won't survive the night. You know you won't survive the next hour, you know, you know, you know... Stop it! Laura screamed and slammed her fist into the drawer. Stop it!! I can't take it anymore!! Kill me, destroy me, but stop toying with me!! I'm going crazy!! I'm going crazy!!