The house settled once the first urgency burned itself out. Voices lowered. Radios went quiet. Footsteps slowed into something more careful. Upstairs, the study became a room people entered only when they were told to, and left as quickly as they could. Death had a way of reorganizing space like that.
Aarav stayed near the staircase, half in the center of things, half apart from them. He watched without looking like he was watching. The way people moved told him more than what they said.
Neha Mehra was shifted from the hallway into the living room. Someone placed a cup of tea on the table beside her. The steam rose, curled, disappeared. She never lifted it. Her shawl slipped slightly from one shoulder and no one corrected it. She stared straight ahead, not at the floor, not at the walls, but through the room, as if it were made of glass.
Kunal Mehra stood near the far wall, arms crossed tightly, weight shifted onto one leg. His jaw worked every few seconds, teeth grinding down on something unspoken. He answered questions when they came, briefly, defensively, as if every sentence cost him something.
Maya Iyer remained near the window. Her phone stayed in her hand, screen dark. She did not fidget. When officers spoke to her, she turned fully toward them. Her voice carried just enough steadiness to be convincing.
Sanjay Rao had not arrived yet.
Aarav absorbed all of it while appearing to do nothing at all.
Inspector Deshpande joined him by the stairs. He leaned against the railing, tired already, the way men did when they knew the case would follow them home.
"You want to be officially involved?" Deshpande asked.
Aarav did not look at him. "I already am."
Deshpande exhaled slowly. "You know how this plays out. Locked room. Family inside the house. Media will eat it up."
"Media always does," Aarav said. His voice was flat, drained of interest.
Deshpande studied him. Aarav looked the same as before. Same stillness. Same habit of pausing before answering. But there was a drag to him now, something weighted, like he was carrying time instead of moving through it.
"You don't have to do this," Deshpande said. "You keep taking these cases like you owe them something."
Aarav did not respond. His attention had shifted to the window, where a constable was speaking to Maya. She nodded, handed over her phone without hesitation.
"Tell me about her," Aarav said.
"The assistant?" Deshpande replied. "Capable. Worked for him three years. Practically ran his schedule."
"That's a job description."
Deshpande frowned. "She found the body."
"So did circumstance," Aarav said. "That doesn't narrow anything."
Deshpande followed his gaze. "Everyone here has motive."
Aarav's eyes stayed on Maya. "Everyone who knew him does."
Silence settled between them. Rain brushed softly against the glass. Aarav felt the familiar pressure build in his chest. It always arrived quietly, not like excitement, not like dread. More like a tightening, a reminder to slow down.
"Let me talk to her," he said.
Deshpande hesitated. "Careful."
"I always am."
Aarav approached Maya at an unhurried pace. Enough time for her to notice him, to prepare if she needed to. She turned as he stopped in front of her, posture straight, face composed.
"Ms. Iyer," he said. "I'm Aarav."
"I know," she replied. "Inspector Deshpande mentioned you."
"Did he," Aarav said. "What did he say?"
A faint pause. Barely there. "That you notice things," she said. "And that you don't rush to conclusions."
Aarav watched her closely. "Who told you that?"
She tilted her head, just slightly. "He did."
"Did he sound impressed," Aarav asked, "or tired?"
She did not answer that. He let it go.
"You came earlier than usual today," he said.
"Yes."
"By how much?"
"About an hour."
"Why?"
"Raghav sir asked me to bring some files first thing."
"What kind of files?"
"Property records. Older ones."
Aarav noted the absence of hesitation. That did not mean honesty. It meant preparation.
"When you reached the house," he said, "what happened?"
"I knocked. No response. Used my key for the main door. Went upstairs. The study was locked. I called the police."
"You didn't try to open it."
"No."
"Why?"
This time she took a breath. "It didn't feel right."
Aarav nodded as if that were a sufficient explanation. "What didn't?"
"The silence," she said. "The house felt… paused."
He thanked her and stepped back before the conversation could stretch. People said more when they thought they were done.
He moved toward Kunal next.
"You were here last night," Aarav said.
Kunal let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. "That's what this is now? A statement?"
"Were you here?"
"Yes. Dinner."
"When did you leave?"
"Around nine."
"You argued with your brother."
Kunal's jaw tightened further. "That narrows it down to everyone he ever spoke to."
"About money?"
"About respect," Kunal said. "Money was just the word we used to avoid saying everything else."
Aarav waited. Kunal looked away first.
Neha Mehra barely lifted her eyes when Aarav approached. Her answers came in fragments. Yes. No. I don't know. Grief weighed on her in a way that left little room for anything else. Aarav did not press. Pushing grief rarely uncovered truth. It only reshaped pain.
Sanjay Rao arrived late, breathless, loud in his disbelief. He filled the room with explanations before anyone asked. Out of town. Meetings. Messages. Receipts. He offered proof the way people offered apologies, hoping volume might replace substance. Aarav listened, nodded, and moved on.
Later, when the house had quieted again, Deshpande found Aarav sitting on the stairs, notebook closed in his hands.
"Well?" Deshpande asked.
"Well," Aarav said, "nothing yet."
"You noticed something upstairs."
"I noticed a question."
"That's not enough to build a case."
"It never is."
Deshpande leaned against the railing. "You're different this time."
Aarav looked up. "How so?"
"You're slower," Deshpande said. "You used to jump when patterns appeared."
Aarav's fingers tightened slightly around the notebook. Something crossed his face, gone before it could settle.
"Patterns don't disappear," he said. "They wait until you stop chasing them."
Deshpande hesitated. "You still thinking about that old case?"
Aarav looked past him, toward the study door upstairs, closed, guarded, pretending to be finished.
"I think about all of them," he said. "That one just refuses to forget me."
Deshpande did not ask more.
Aarav stood and walked upstairs, stopping outside the study. He did not enter. He pictured it instead. The stopped clock. The disturbed dust. The key placed with care.
Someone had wanted the room to speak on their behalf. Someone had trusted that order would pass for truth.
Aarav opened his notebook and wrote a single line.
Not who. Not yet.
Below him, the house shifted, adjusting to the shape of what had happened. Rain continued outside, steady and patient.
So did Aarav.