Morning arrived without announcement.
A pale sky settled in without urgency, and ordinary sounds slowly returned to the street. Nearby, a metal gate creaked open. A scooter passed, its tires whispering over damp asphalt. Life moved on, indifferent to the fact that one house on the street had remained awake all night.
Aarav had not slept.
He sat at the dining table in the same chair as before, the same files spread in front of him. Nothing new had been added. No fresh reports, no sudden revelations. And yet the arrangement felt different. Less settled. As if the case itself had shifted while everyone else had rested.
Neha Mehra's name sat at the top of the page in his notebook.
It was where Deshpande wanted it. Where procedure preferred it. Where logic, when skimmed instead of studied, insisted it belonged.
Aarav stared at the name for a long moment. He did not pick up the pen.
Instead, he stood and went upstairs.
The study door was sealed again, red tape stretched clean across the frame, unbroken and neat. Aarav stopped in front of it. He did not touch the tape. He did not reach for the handle. He let memory replace access.
He rebuilt the room in his head, slowly.
The clock on the wall, frozen at 11:40. The thin layer of dust resting undisturbed, except for one small smear near the edge. The key lying flat on the desk, placed with a care that pretended to be accidental. The window latch closed properly. The desk lamp working. The body positioned near the desk, not the door.
None of it contradicted the idea that Neha Mehra had killed her husband.
But none of it required that conclusion either.
That was what bothered him.
A constable appeared at the far end of the corridor, walking softly, as if the house might object to sudden movement. "Sir," he said. "Forensics update."
Aarav took the report downstairs and read it standing, eyes moving without hurry.
The time of death had been adjusted. Earlier. Not by much. Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Still within everyone's timeline. Still clean. Still useful.
Still easy to ignore.
He folded the report and placed it face down on the table.
Inspector Deshpande arrived shortly after, his jacket slung over one arm, fatigue softened by confidence. "We're moving ahead," he said. "Neha remains our primary suspect."
Aarav nodded once. "For now."
Deshpande stopped. "You don't agree."
"I'm not convinced," Aarav said.
"That's not the same thing."
"It is to me."
Deshpande pulled out a chair and sat heavily. "You're doing it again."
Aarav glanced at him. "Doing what?"
"Slowing everything down just when it starts to make sense."
Aarav leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling. He was quiet for a moment, then spoke.
"There was a case," he said. "Three years ago."
Deshpande stiffened slightly but didn't interrupt.
"Everything fit," Aarav continued. "Motive, opportunity, witnesses. A man who matched guilt perfectly. I saw a detail. A small one. Something off about the timing."
He paused.
"I ignored it."
Deshpande looked away.
"I told myself it didn't matter," Aarav said. "That the bigger picture was clear. I wanted the story to be finished."
"And it wasn't," Deshpande said.
"No."
The silence that followed was heavier than argument.
"That's not happening here," Deshpande said at last.
"I don't know that yet," Aarav replied. "And that's exactly why I'm uncomfortable."
Deshpande stood. "You can't stall an investigation because of an old mistake."
"I'm not stalling it," Aarav said. "I'm making sure I don't repeat it."
That afternoon, Aarav asked to reenter the study. Officially this time. Deshpande agreed, though reluctance showed in his eyes.
The tape was removed. The door opened.
Aarav went in alone and closed it behind him. He stood still, letting the room settle around him. It was quiet, but not empty. The kind of quiet that felt arranged.
He walked straight to the clock.
The smear in the dust was still there.
He lifted his hand, stopping just short of the surface. He imagined the movement instead. Someone reaching up. Not in panic. Not rushing. A deliberate touch. Checking the time. Adjusting it. Or stopping it.
Why touch the clock at all?
He moved to the desk and studied the key again. This time, he picked it up, holding it between his fingers. It was warm now, handled too many times to remember its original state. The weight felt ordinary. Unremarkable.
Keys fell. They slid. They bounced.
They did not usually land flat.
Aarav placed it back down exactly where it had been.
He turned to the door and crouched, examining the narrow gap between wood and floor. Dust there too. Undisturbed. No scuffing. No sign of movement afterward.
The room had been designed to end questions.
Aarav stood and left the study.
Downstairs, Maya Iyer was sorting documents into a smaller folder. Her movements were efficient, unhurried. Aarav watched for a moment before speaking.
"You're still here," he said.
"Yes," she replied. "There's a lot to organize."
"You could leave it for later."
She shook her head. "Raghav liked things finished."
Aarav studied her face. Calm. Controlled. Revealing nothing she did not intend to give.
"Do you think Neha killed him?" he asked.
Maya considered this carefully. "I think people are capable of things they don't plan."
"That wasn't what I asked."
"I don't know," she said. "But it's possible."
Aarav tilted his head slightly. "And you?"
She met his gaze without flinching. "I'm capable of more than people assume."
He nodded, as if he had expected that answer all along.
By evening, Deshpande pushed again. "We can't keep this open forever."
Aarav stood by the window, watching the sky darken. "I know," he said. "But closing it too early is worse."
"What do you want?" Deshpande asked.
"One day," Aarav said. "Where we stop adding pieces and start questioning the picture we've already built."
Deshpande hesitated. Then, reluctantly, nodded. "One day."
That night, Aarav returned to the dining table and opened his notebook. He did not add new names. He did not strike any out.
He flipped back to an older page. One he rarely visited.
A name from another case. Another time.
He closed the notebook again.
The mistake he had made then was not missing evidence.
It was believing the story before it was finished telling itself.
This time, he would wait.
Even if waiting meant he was the only one not moving.