Fifty Four Minutes To Murder
The camera says he walked in at 10:14. He died at 9:38.
At midnight, a guard knocks on the penthouse door of Delhi real estate tycoon Naveen Sabharwal. A voice answers. A hand holds the door. "All fine. Took the medicine. Go."
By morning Sabharwal is found strangled on his study floor, a ghee lamp burning beside his body, the door locked from inside. The lobby footage shows him arriving alive. His daughter swears she spoke to him after ten. Every witness, every record, every camera agrees.
Every one of them is wrong.
Five years ago, Inspector Shalini Negi put a night guard in prison for the death of a young engineer on this same tower. The High Court freed him and destroyed her. "Accused offers no explanation," she had written, when he begged her to check the camera's clock. Now that same guard is the prime suspect, half of Delhi wants him dead, and Shalini is suspended, disgraced, and the only person in the city still asking what time it really was.
As she pulls the case apart, the bodies keep falling. A young guard who saw too much. An old watchman who lent his phone to the wrong stranger. A rooftop ambush, a garbage truck, a lift shaft thirty-eight floors deep. Someone is always one step ahead of her, and the closer she gets to the truth, the closer the killer gets to her.
Fifty-four minutes. One lying clock. And a murder that was never what it seemed.
A relentless, twist-packed impossible-crime thriller set in the smog and shadows of modern Delhi, perfect for readers who love locked-room mysteries, flawed female detectives, and endings they will not see coming.
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