Helena Havel's house stood in a quiet part of town, far from the noise and prying eyes. An elegant, cold, perfectly maintained building. Too perfect. Volkov stopped the car in front of the black gate and observed it for a few seconds before getting out. It wasn't a house that spoke of love, but of appearances. He rang the doorbell once. Helena opened the door, her face serene, dressed in black, her hair neatly styled. She didn't seem surprised.

  "Detective Volkov," she said. "I knew you'd come."

  He entered unhurriedly. The interior was spacious and tidy, with expensive furniture and carefully arranged photographs. In almost all of them, John Hagen was smiling. A smile that now seemed forced.

  "I'm sorry for your loss," Volkov said, more out of protocol than courtesy.

  "Thank you," she replied. "Although apologies don't change anything."

  They sat facing each other. Helena crossed her legs, maintaining a firm, controlled posture.

  "I knew about the infidelity," Volkov began. "It's in the report."

  She didn't flinch.

  "Yes. I've known for months."

  "And yet you still lived with him?"

  Helena let out a soft, humorless laugh.

  "Marriage isn't always love, Detective. Sometimes it's... habit. Or convenience."

  Volkov watched her closely.

  "Did you argue the night he died?"

  She shook her head.

  "No. John came home late. He said he'd be working until very late. It was normal."

  "Did he seem nervous? Different?"

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  Helena hesitated for barely a second.

  "He was distant," she admitted. "Like something was bothering him. But he was always like that when he was hiding something."

  Volkov looked around.

  "Did you notice anything missing from the house? Any personal items?"

  Helena frowned slightly.

  "Now that you mention it... his watch. He never took it off. It wasn't at the office or here."

  That phrase stuck in Volkov's mind.

  “That’s not in the report,” he said calmly.

  Helena lowered her gaze for the first time.

  “The police never asked.”

  Volkov stood up slowly.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Havel. It’s been… enlightening.”

  When he left the house, the air seemed heavier. A piece had just moved on the chessboard. The clock was gone. And someone had removed it. Mila Novak’s address was different. A small apartment in an old building, with yellow lights and narrow hallways. Volkov went up the stairs unhurriedly. He knocked on the door. This time, it took a while for them to answer. Mila appeared with tired eyes, her makeup smudged, as if she hadn’t slept in days.

  “The police again?” she asked defensively.

  “Detective Volkov,” he replied. “I’m not ‘again.’”

  She hesitated, but let it go.

  The apartment was chaotic. Clothes on a chair, an empty glass on the table, papers scattered about. Nothing like the office or Helena’s house.

  “You and John Hagen were having an affair,” Volkov said bluntly.

  Mila let out a bitter laugh.

  “Is that in a report too?”

  “Enough,” he replied. “I want to know how your last encounter went.”

  Mila sat down slowly.

  “We saw each other that night,” she confessed. “In his office.”

  Volkov didn’t react, but inside, everything clicked a little more.

  “That contradicts your previous statement,” she said. “You said you didn’t see him that day.”

  “I lied,” he admitted. “I didn’t want any trouble.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “Around 8:30. He was upset. We argued.”

  “Why?”

  Mila pressed her lips together.

  “I wanted him to leave his wife. He promised me things he never kept.”

  Volkov stared at her.

  “Was he wearing a watch that night?”

  Mila frowned, confused.

  “Yes… an expensive one. Dark metal. I remember because he banged it on the desk when he got angry.”

  The silence was heavy.

  “Did he take it with him when he left?” Volkov asked.

  “No,” she answered slowly. I'm sure he left it there.

  Volkov stood up.

  "Thank you, Mila. He's said more than he realizes."

  As he left the building, Volkov closed his eyes for a moment. The clock wasn't in the office. His wife noticed his absence. His mistress saw him there for the last time. Someone returned later. Someone close. Someone who knew what to take... and what to leave behind.

  The puzzle was beginning to take shape. And for the first time since arriving in the city, Volkov knew one thing for sure: John Hagen's murder wasn't impulsive. It was personal. And the mistake that would expose the culprit was already there. It just needed to be examined from the right angle.