# The Vanishing Hour Detective Morgan surveyed the crime scene, her trained eyes picking up subtle clues others might easily have overlooked. A grandfather clock stood silently in the corner, its hands frozen at precisely three minutes past midnight. The victim lay sprawled across an antique Persian rug, one arm extended as if reaching for something just beyond grasp. Blood had congealed around the silver letter opener embedded in his chest, forming a dark medallion on his silk pajamas. Raindrops tapped gently against tall windows overlooking the garden where someone had recently trampled through carefully cultivated rose bushes. The house remained eerily quiet except for the occasional creak of floorboards beneath the weight of forensic technicians. "He was expecting his killer," Morgan murmured, noting the two crystal glasses of whiskey sitting untouched on the mahogany desk. Nothing appeared stolen, yet drawers hung open haphazardly, their contents strewn about as if someone had been searching frantically. The victim's secretary discovered the body early this morning when he failed to appear for an important business meeting. Detective Morgan knelt beside the corpse, wondering what secrets this powerful man had taken with him to the grave.