"We haven't identified the third one yet. But there's something else."

Rapid footsteps sounded in the corridor. Dorokhov burst into the room.

"Just got a call from the detention center. Viktor is demanding a lawyer. Says he's ready to testify."

"About what?"

"About another murder. One that wasn't solved twenty years ago."

Elena Andreevna went pale. "What murder are you talking about?"

Anna gathered the papers into the folder. "Dorokhov, take Elena Andreevna home. And make sure there's a patrol unit by her building. I'm going to the detention center."

At the doorway, she turned back: "And find me everything you can about Andrei Savelyev. Especially for the last two years."

The story was growing more complex. The web spun by Viktor turned out to be larger and more terrifying than they had suspected. And somewhere in this web, the third person from the photograph still lurked.

The gray walls of the detention center felt oppressive. Anna sat in the interrogation room, staring at her own reflection in the one-way mirror. Over her years of service, she had encountered many criminals, but now she felt an inexplicable anxiety. Something about this case wasn't right, as if they were seeing only the tip of the iceberg.

The door clanged open. Two guards brought in Viktor Mikhailovich. In his gray prison uniform, he seemed smaller, paler, but his gaze remained the same—piercing, studying. He sat down across from her, carefully placing his hands on the table. The handcuffs clinked quietly.

"I've been waiting for you," his voice sounded calm, almost friendly. "I knew that sooner or later you'd find the connection. You've been to see Granin, haven't you? Seen his collection?"

Anna silently turned on the recorder. Viktor smiled—the same smile she had seen in old photographs.

"Do you know the mistake all investigators make? They look for motive. They try to understand 'why.' But sometimes there is no 'why.' Sometimes there's only 'what for.'"

"And what did you do it for?"

"Oh, are you talking about Katya? Or Sophia?" he leaned forward. "Or those whose bodies were never found? Like Masha Svetlova? Twenty years ago, three months before Katya Voronova. Mikhail Stepanovich didn't know about that case. It happened in another city."

Anna felt a chill run down her spine. Another victim. Another family not knowing the truth.

"Tell me about Masha."

"First about the elephants," Viktor leaned back in his chair. "You understand that it's about them, don't you? Not about the girls—about the elephants. Every collection must be completed. Every story must have an ending."

"Where is Sophia?"

"In a safe place. With a reliable person. You've seen his photograph—the third man in the picture. His name is Igor. Igor Vasilyev. Though now, he has a different surname. Just like me."

"Why are you telling us this?"

Viktor tilted his head, examining Anna like a curious exhibit. "Because the game is over. Because the seventh elephant has taken its place. And because you're too late anyway."

At that moment, Dorokhov practically burst into the room. "We found remains," he gasped. "In the forest, near the old chapel. A woman."

"Not a woman," Viktor gently corrected. "A girl. Masha Svetlova. I did promise to tell you about another murder."

Anna stood up abruptly. "Where is Sophia?"

"Well, that," Viktor smiled again, "depends on how quickly you solve the riddle. You know, each elephant has its own story. And each story has its own elephant. White ones for those who have found peace. Blue ones for those who are still waiting."