Chapter 2
THE ROOM THAT NEVER BURNED
Zayan had spent seventeen years believing his mother died behind a locked door.
Now Aaliyah was holding a piece of paper that suggested someone had locked it deliberately.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
The kitchen clock ticked above their heads. Somewhere outside, a motorcycle rattled past the house, its engine fading into the evening traffic. A cup of tea sat untouched beside Zayan's hand.
Aaliyah looked down at the note again.
ROOM 17.
JUNE 14.
ASK WHO LOCKED THE DOOR.
"What happened that night?" she asked.
Zayan rubbed his thumb across the silver ring on his finger.
"The official report said the fire started in the east wing of my family's estate. My mother was upstairs. The smoke spread before anyone could reach her."
"How old were you?"
"Twelve."
"Did you see her?"
His eyes lifted to hers.
"Yes."
The answer was so quiet that she almost wished she hadn't asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I saw her that evening. She was arguing with my father in his study. I remember because she told me to go upstairs, and I refused. I wanted her to help me with a school project."
He paused.
"She promised she would come to my room after dinner."
Aaliyah waited.
"She never did."
The words settled between them.
She had expected anger from him, perhaps bitterness. Instead, he spoke about his mother as if he were still that twelve-year-old boy waiting for footsteps outside his bedroom.
"Did your father tell you what they were arguing about?"
"He said it was business."
"And you believed him?"
"I was twelve."
He looked away.
"I believed whatever made the world easier to understand."
Aaliyah recognized the feeling.
She had done the same thing with her own father. Whenever Imran refused to discuss Samina, Aaliyah had told herself that silence was a kind of protection. Whenever Hamza asked why their mother never called, she had repeated the explanation she had been given.
People left. People died. The living had to continue.
Simple answers were easier to carry than complicated truths.
"Room seventeen," she said. "Where is it?"
Zayan's expression changed.
"I don't know."
"You grew up in that house."
"I grew up in the main estate. Room seventeen was in the servants' wing, near the old records office."
"Was it destroyed in the fire?"
"According to my father, the entire east wing was damaged beyond repair."
"According to your father."
He looked at her.
"You think I haven't noticed the same thing?"
"Then why haven't you investigated?"
His jaw tightened.
"Because every time I tried, someone reminded me that my mother was dead and that reopening the past wouldn't bring her back."
"And you listened."
"Yes."
The admission carried no excuse.
Aaliyah folded the note and slipped it into her pocket.
"Not anymore."
Zayan reached for his phone.
"Give me an hour."
"For what?"
"To find out whether the estate is still accessible."
"And if it isn't?"
He met her gaze.
"Then we'll find another way in."
For the first time since her father's funeral, Aaliyah felt something other than grief or fear.
It wasn't hope exactly.
Hope was too fragile a word for what had begun to move inside her.
This was determination.
And it frightened her almost as much as the truth.
At nine fifteen, Zayan pulled his car to a stop outside a rusted iron gate.
The Malik estate stood beyond it, hidden behind a high boundary wall and a row of overgrown trees. A few security lights remained operational, casting pale circles across the cracked driveway. The main house was enormous, with balconies, stone columns, and tall windows that reflected the night.
Even in its neglected state, it looked expensive.
Aaliyah stared at it through the windshield.
"This is where you grew up?"
"Until I was eighteen."
"And you haven't been back?"
"Not properly."
"What does that mean?"
"I came once for a legal meeting. I stayed in the car."
He switched off the engine.
For a moment, they sat in silence.
Aaliyah looked at the gate, then at him.
"Are we actually doing this?"
"You came all the way here."
"That isn't an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She opened her door.
The night air smelled of damp soil and old leaves. Somewhere beyond the wall, a dog barked twice before falling silent.
Zayan joined her at the gate.
He pressed the bell.
Nothing happened.
He pressed it again.
A light appeared in a small security booth near the entrance. An elderly guard stepped out, wrapped in a grey shawl.
He approached the gate slowly, squinting through the bars.
"Who is it?"
"Rashid?"
The guard stopped.
For a moment, he stared at Zayan as though he were looking at a ghost.
"Young master?"
Zayan gave a tired half-smile.
"I'm afraid so."
Rashid unlocked the smaller gate but didn't open it completely.
"Why have you come here?"
"I need to look at the old servants' wing."
The man's expression hardened.
"That part of the property is closed."
"I know."
"Then you should leave."
Zayan glanced at Aaliyah.
"We won't be long."
Rashid looked at her.
"Who is this?"
"Aaliyah Rahman."
The effect was immediate.
The guard stepped back.
Aaliyah felt her stomach tighten.
"You know my name?"
Rashid said nothing.
She moved closer to the gate.
"Did you know my father?"
His eyes dropped.
"Please go home, miss."
"Did you know Samina Rahman?"
He shut his eyes briefly.
Then he opened the gate.
"Ten minutes," he said. "And if anyone asks, I never saw you."
Zayan's expression darkened.
"Rashid, what's happened here?"
The old guard looked toward the main house.
"Some doors should have stayed closed, young master."
He led them inside.
The estate had not been abandoned in the ordinary sense.
Someone was still maintaining the gardens, trimming the hedges and repairing the outer walls. The front lawn had grown wild, but the stone pathway remained clear, and fresh tire tracks crossed the gravel near the main entrance.
The property was not dead.
It was being kept quiet.
As they walked toward the east wing, Aaliyah noticed a row of windows covered from the inside. Most of the house was dark, but a faint light glowed behind one of the upper curtains.
"Someone lives here," she whispered.
"My father doesn't. He sold the estate after my mother's death."
"Then who owns it?"
"A company registered under a different name."
She stopped walking.
"Your father's company?"
"Probably."
"Probably?"
He turned toward her.
"I haven't had access to his business records in years."
Aaliyah continued walking.
"You make a habit of not knowing things."
"And you make a habit of believing every question deserves an immediate answer."
She gave him a sharp look.
He raised his hands.
"That was unfair."
"Yes."
"I apologize."
She hadn't expected that.
For a moment, neither knew what to do with the apology.
Then Zayan looked away and continued toward the east wing.
The old servants' quarters stood behind the main house. The walls were stained, and the windows had been boarded over. A metal staircase climbed to a narrow upper corridor where several doors opened onto a long, covered balcony.
Room seventeen was at the far end.
Its number had been painted over.
Aaliyah brushed away a layer of dust with her sleeve.
The faint outline of the digits emerged beneath the paint.
17.
She felt the note in her pocket as though the paper had grown heavier.
"This is it."
Zayan examined the door.
A thick chain had been looped through the handles. A modern padlock secured it.
"Why would anyone put a new lock on a burned building?" Aaliyah asked.
He touched the metal.
"It isn't burned."
She looked at him.
"What?"
"The wood. Look at it."
The door was dark with age, but its surface remained intact. There were scratches around the handle and a small dent near the bottom. No soot. No blistering. No evidence that fire had ever touched it.
Aaliyah's mouth went dry.
"Maybe the room was repaired."
"Then why seal it?"
He took out his phone and photographed the lock.
Before he could do anything else, a voice came from behind them.
"You need to leave."
Rashid stood at the bottom of the stairs.
He looked frightened now, not merely cautious.
"Someone has seen your car," he said. "The people who look after this property don't like visitors."
"Who are they?" Zayan asked.
"Men who ask no questions."
"Whose men?"
Rashid's silence answered him.
Aaliyah stepped toward the old guard.
"Please. My brother is missing. My mother has been hiding for seventeen years. My father died without telling me why."
She swallowed.
"I don't have the luxury of leaving questions unanswered."
Rashid looked at her for a long time.
Then he reached into his pocket and took out a small brass key.
"I kept this after the fire."
Zayan stared at it.
"You said everything in the east wing was destroyed."
"I said nothing of the kind."
"Your report—"
"Your father wrote the report, young master. I was the one who carried your mother out of the house."
The words struck with the force of a physical blow.
Zayan grabbed the railing.
"What?"
Rashid's eyes filled with something close to shame.
"I was told not to speak of it."
"Carried her out where?" Aaliyah demanded.
"The ambulance."
"Was she alive?"
Rashid hesitated.
"I don't know."
Zayan stepped closer.
"You were there. You carried her. How can you not know?"
"Because I was not allowed to see her face."
The old man looked toward the sealed door.
"They covered her before they brought her out. Your father told everyone she had died in the fire. By morning, the story was already in the newspapers."
Aaliyah felt sick.
"Was there a body?"
Rashid shook his head.
"Not one I saw."
Zayan stared at him.
"You let me believe she died."
"I was afraid."
"You let me spend seventeen years believing she died behind that door."
"I was afraid," Rashid repeated, his voice breaking. "And I have spent every day since wishing I had been brave enough to tell you."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Zayan turned away.
His shoulders had gone rigid, and his hands were clenched at his sides. Aaliyah wanted to say something, but she knew there were no words that could make this easier.
The man who had raised her had hidden the truth about her mother.
Now she was watching another son discover that his father's version of a tragedy might have been a lie.
Different families.
The same damage.
"Open the door," Zayan said.
Rashid looked at the key in his hand.
Then he walked toward the padlock.
The lock opened with a sharp metallic click.
The chain fell to the floor.
Zayan pushed the door.
It moved only a few inches before catching against something inside.
He leaned his shoulder against it.
The obstruction scraped across the floor, and the door opened wide enough for them to enter.
Aaliyah stepped into the room first.
The air was stale, thick with dust and the smell of old paper. A single window had been sealed with plywood. There was a narrow bed against one wall, a metal cabinet, and a desk with a cracked glass surface.
It did not look like a room that had been destroyed by fire.
It looked like a room someone had abandoned in a hurry.
A small ceramic cup lay broken beside the bed.
A dried brown stain marked the floor near the door.
Aaliyah looked away before she could decide what it was.
Zayan switched on his phone's flashlight.
"Don't touch anything."
She almost laughed.
"You're telling me not to touch anything in a room that has been locked for seventeen years?"
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He crouched beside the cabinet.
The top drawer was open. Inside lay a collection of old files, several envelopes, and a small black notebook.
Aaliyah moved toward the desk.
There were marks on the surface where something heavy had once stood. A rectangular patch of wood was cleaner than the rest, protected from dust by an object that was no longer there.
She ran her fingers along the edge.
"Someone took something."
Zayan looked up.
"What?"
"Whatever stood here. It was removed recently."
He examined the desk.
"How can you tell?"
"The dust. The outline is too clean."
He stared at her for a moment.
"You're good at this."
"I spent years looking for explanations in a house where no one wanted to give them."
She regretted the words as soon as she said them.
Zayan didn't respond.
He picked up the black notebook.
Most of its pages had been torn out.
The remaining entries contained dates, short notes, and several names. Aaliyah leaned closer as he turned the pages.
On the third page, she saw her father's name.
IMRAN RAHMAN.
Below it was a date.
June 13.
The day before the fire.
Beside his name, someone had written:
HE WILL BRING THE GIRL.
Aaliyah felt her heartbeat stumble.
"What girl?"
Zayan turned the page.
Another entry.
SAMINA REFUSES TO SIGN.
Below it, in a different hand:
FARAZ HAS APPROVED THE PAYMENT.
Aaliyah took the notebook from him.
"Payment for what?"
Zayan's face had become unreadable.
"I don't know."
"Stop saying that."
"What do you want me to tell you? That my father paid your father to keep your mother quiet? That he arranged a fire to hide whatever happened here? I don't know."
His voice rose, then fell.
"I was a child, Aaliyah. I didn't know any of this."
She looked at him.
For a moment, she saw the twelve-year-old boy again, waiting for a mother who had promised to visit his room after dinner.
She lowered the notebook.
"I'm sorry."
He shook his head.
"Don't be. You didn't do this."
A sound came from the corridor.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Rashid appeared at the doorway, his face pale.
"We have to go."
"Why?" Zayan asked.
"Someone is coming."
Aaliyah slipped the notebook into her bag.
Zayan picked up the loose files and tucked them beneath his arm.
They hurried toward the door.
Before they reached it, a man's voice sounded from the corridor.
"Mr. Malik?"
Zayan stopped.
The voice came again.
"Your father would like to know why you've returned."
Aaliyah looked at him.
Zayan's face had gone cold.
"Get behind me," he whispered.
She didn't move.
"I'm not hiding behind you."
"Please, just this once."
There was no time to argue.
Two men appeared at the far end of the corridor. Both wore dark clothes. One carried a flashlight, while the other held a phone to his ear.
The first man smiled when he saw Zayan.
"We've been expecting you."
Zayan stepped forward.
"Who are you?"
"People who maintain the property."
"Then maintain it somewhere else."
The man glanced at Aaliyah.
"Miss Rahman. Your mother sends her regards."
Every muscle in Aaliyah's body tightened.
"What did you say?"
The man smiled again.
"She wants you to stop searching."
"Where is she?"
"That's not something you need to know."
"Where is my brother?"
For the first time, his expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Zayan noticed it too.
"You have Hamza," he said.
The man ignored him.
"Give us the notebook, and we'll let you leave."
Aaliyah's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
"No."
The man sighed.
"That was the wrong answer."
He took a step forward.
Zayan moved between them.
"If you come any closer, I'll call the police."
"You already called them," the man replied. "They've been very helpful."
He lifted his phone.
On the screen was a photograph of Hamza sitting in a chair, his wrists tied in front of him.
His face was bruised.
Aaliyah's breath caught.
"Don't hurt him."
"Then give us the notebook."
She looked at Zayan.
He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
The man noticed.
"Mr. Malik, I suggest you stop pretending this is about justice. Your father has been very patient with you. He won't remain patient forever."
Zayan's jaw tightened.
"Tell him I'm done being afraid of him."
The man laughed.
"Your mother said the same thing."
Zayan went completely still.
Aaliyah looked at him.
"What?"
The man lowered his phone.
"Ask your friend about the night of the fire, Miss Rahman. He knows more than he's told you."
Then he lunged.
Zayan shoved Aaliyah toward the open doorway as the man grabbed his shirt.
The second man reached for her bag.
She twisted away, struck the wall with her shoulder, and heard the notebook tear through the lining.
For one desperate second, she thought she had lost it.
Then Zayan shouted her name.
She ran.
Rashid was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with the gate key. He pushed it into her hand.
"Go!"
"What about Zayan?"
"GO!"
Aaliyah ran through the courtyard.
Behind her came the sound of shouting, followed by a heavy crash.
She reached the gate and pulled it open.
Her car was still parked outside, but another vehicle had stopped behind it.
A black sedan.
The driver's door opened.
Faraz Malik stepped out.
He looked at Aaliyah, then at the open gate.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then his gaze moved to the bag on her shoulder.
"You found the notebook."
Aaliyah felt her fingers curl around the key.
"Where is my brother?"
Faraz's expression hardened.
"I told you to stop asking questions."
"And I told you I wouldn't."
He looked toward the estate.
"Zayan is inside."
"I know."
"Then you know what happens when people refuse to listen."
Aaliyah stepped toward him.
"Did you kill your wife?"
The question seemed to stop the night around them.
Faraz stared at her.
For the first time, he looked genuinely old.
Then he said, "No."
She searched his face.
"Did you lock her in Room 17?"
"No."
"Then who did?"
Faraz's eyes moved toward the gate.
A figure stood in the shadows behind him.
A woman in a grey shawl.
Aaliyah recognized the shape of her face before the light reached it.
Samina.
Her mother stood only a few feet away, looking at her daughter with eyes full of terror.
"Aaliyah," she whispered.
Aaliyah couldn't move.
For seventeen years, she had imagined this moment.
She had imagined anger, explanations, apologies, tears.
She had imagined asking why her mother had left.
Instead, Samina looked at the notebook in Aaliyah's bag and shook her head.
"You shouldn't have opened that room."
Aaliyah swallowed.
"Where is Hamza?"
Her mother's lips trembled.
Then she looked at Faraz.
"Tell her the truth."
Faraz said nothing.
Samina took one step toward her daughter.
"The night of the fire, I wasn't the only person inside Room 17."
Aaliyah stared at her.
"Who else was there?"
Her mother looked toward the darkened estate.
Then she whispered the one name Aaliyah had never expected to hear.
"Your father."