9 hours 28 minutes
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I pochemu ya, Viola Tarakanova, ne umeyu govorit 'net'? Zazvala menya v gosti nachalnica piar-otdela izdatelstva, vypuskayushchego moi knigi pod psevdonimom Arina Violova, i vot uzhe ya s korobkoy piccy pod myshkoy stoyu u ee doma. Dver okazalas otkrytoy, a dom - pustym... Vdrug ya uvidela v okno, kak beschuvstvennuyu Veru unosit na svoem pleche... oboroten! Menya, konechno, ubedili, chto eto prosto eroticheskie igry, no na sleduyushchiy den Veru obnaruzhili mertvoy! Ona pogibla v noch na pyatnadcatoe dekabrya, i vyyasnilos: uzhe tretiy god podryad v etot vovse ne krasnyy den kalendarya kto-to ubivaet zhenshchin, kotoryh ob'edinyaet odna primeta - glaza raznogo cveta. Takih do sih por schitayut vedmami! Sledstvie vedet moy byvshiy muzh Oleg Kuprin, poetomu uznat vse ranshe nego dlya menya delo chesti! No snachala nado vypolnit neobychnuyu prosbu izdatelstva — pomoch moemu vernomu fanatu Ivanu Zareckomu. On hochet zaranee organizovat… svoi sobstvennye pohorony!