The rain had been falling since dusk. Not hard enough to flood the streets or send people running for cover, just steady and stubborn, the kind that felt like it had settled in for the night. It glazed the driveway of the Mehra house and softened the garden lights until they looked like pale halos floating in the dark. By the time the first police car turned in, tires hissing against wet stone, the house already felt sealed. Windows were dark. Doors were shut. It had the quiet of a place that had decided it would not answer questions.
Raghav Mehra lay dead in his study on the first floor.
The room reflected him in every small way. Square. Controlled. Careful. A long desk faced the window, its surface cleared except for a lamp, a pen stand, and a few neatly stacked files. Shelves climbed the walls, each folder arranged by color and height, as if disorder itself had been personally offensive to him. Near the lamp, a framed photograph rested face down, turned away with deliberate intent.
Raghav himself was the only thing that did not belong.
He lay on his side near the desk, one arm folded awkwardly beneath his chest, the other stretched toward the door as if he had been trying to reach it and failed. Blood had dried along his right temple, dark and uneven, soaking into the edge of the carpet. The wound was not messy. It was direct. Whoever had struck him had known exactly where to hit, and had not felt the need to try again.
The door was locked from the inside.
That detail moved through the house faster than the officers did. It was what the first constable said when he checked the handle. It was what the inspector repeated into his phone. Later, it would become the sentence everyone remembered. The key lay on the study table, close enough to Raghav's outstretched hand to suggest it had slipped from his fingers. The windows were closed. The latch was intact. No broken glass. No forced entry. A clean, sealed space.
Inspector Deshpande stood just inside the doorway, hands on his hips, staring first at the body and then at the lock, as though one of them might contradict the other if he waited long enough.
"Any sign of forced entry?" he asked.
"No, sir," the constable said. "Nothing broken. No marks. No disturbance outside the room."
Deshpande nodded slowly. He had already started arranging the facts into something familiar. Domestic. Personal. These cases usually were. He glanced down the hallway, where Neha Mehra sat on a wooden chair, wrapped in a shawl someone had brought her. Her hands were folded in her lap. She stared at the floor as if it had something important to say.
"Time of death?" he asked.
"Forensics estimates between eleven and twelve," the constable replied. "We will know more once they complete the examination."
Deshpande made a note. The house felt unnaturally quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against the ears. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. Somewhere downstairs, an officer murmured into a radio. Deshpande looked again at the door. Locked rooms always made people uneasy. They demanded explanations that felt clever even when they were wrong.
"Who found the body?" he asked.
"The assistant," the constable said. "Maya Iyer. She came early this morning. Knocked on the study door. No answer. Used her spare key to enter the house. When the study was locked from inside, she called the police."
Deshpande frowned. "Spare key?"
"For the main door, sir."
He stepped fully into the study. The smell inside was faint but distinct, metal and old paper mixed together. He crouched near the body, careful with his footing. The injury told its own story. A single blow. Enough force to kill, not enough to be wild. Anger, maybe, but not chaos.
On the wall opposite the desk hung a clock. Its hands were frozen at 11:40.
Deshpande noticed it without much interest. Old clocks stopped. Batteries died. He straightened, satisfied for now, and stepped back into the hallway to direct the rest of the officers.
That was when Aarav Kael arrived.
He did not announce himself. He never did. He stood near the staircase for a moment, letting the scene settle around him before moving. Someone had called him quietly, without paperwork or formality, the way people did when they wanted answers without admitting they were out of depth. Deshpande noticed him only when he was already there.
"You came," the inspector said, surprised despite himself.
Aarav nodded. "You sounded uncertain."
Deshpande gave a thin smile. "Locked rooms have that effect."
Aarav did not reply. He walked upstairs without asking, his steps light against the wood. No one stopped him. No one ever quite knew when to. He paused at the study doorway and stood there longer than most people would have. He did not rush his eyes from object to object. He let them settle. Corners. Edges. Empty spaces that did not look empty to him.
This time, the clock held his attention.
Not because it had stopped, but because of the dust. A thin layer coated its top edge, undisturbed except for a faint smudge near one side. Someone had touched it recently. The rest of the wall showed no such mark.
Aarav stepped closer to the body. He did not crouch yet. He looked at the door. The lock was old but sturdy. The key on the table lay flat, placed too neatly for something that had simply fallen.
When he crouched, he did it slowly. Close enough to see where the blood met the carpet fibers, dark and stiff. He glanced at his watch, then at the window. Rain dragged itself down the glass in uneven lines.
"You think it's simple?" he asked.
Deshpande shrugged. "Looks that way. Family issues. Money. He wasn't exactly easy to live with."
Aarav reached for the framed photograph and lifted it. Raghav stood between his wife and his brother, all three smiling with the careful effort of people who knew they were being watched. Aarav turned the frame back face down and placed it exactly where it had been.
"Who was here last night?" he asked.
"Wife," Deshpande said. "Brother stopped by earlier in the evening. Assistant left around eight. One friend claims he was out of town. We'll check."
Aarav nodded. His eyes drifted back to the clock.
"Stopped at 11:40," he said.
"Yes," Deshpande replied. "Probably a power fluctuation."
Aarav looked at the desk lamp and switched it on. It worked without hesitation. He scanned the room again. Nothing else seemed affected.
He moved to the window and checked the latch. Properly closed. He ran a finger along the sill. Dust again, broken only in one small patch, like a hand that had rested there briefly and then pulled away.
"You said the assistant found him," Aarav said.
"Yes."
"How did she react?"
Deshpande paused. "Controlled. Shocked, but calm."
Aarav did not comment. He returned to the door and examined the lock more closely. No scratches. No signs of panic. Whoever had turned the key had not been in a hurry.
He straightened slowly.
"This room is trying to tell us something," he said.
Deshpande frowned. "And what's that?"
"That Raghav Mehra was alone," Aarav replied. "That no one entered. That no one left. That everything we see is all there is."
"And you don't agree?"
Aarav looked once more at the clock, at the single disturbed line in the dust.
"I think someone wanted us to," he said.
Down the hallway, Neha Mehra shifted in her chair. A phone rang somewhere below. The rain did not let up.
Aarav stepped out of the study and closed the door behind him, careful to leave it exactly as it had been.
The locked room stayed silent.
But it had already made its first error.