Chapter Two
By the time the police got to Irene’s mansion, gossip was already circulating, spurred on by the loquacious nature of those present.
Irene had fallen and Dimple had run. Like a fool, she hadn’t bothered to check if anyone else was around.
Although agitated, the crowd Dimple had assimilated into seemed unaware of what had transpired.
Only a few people had managed to catch a glimpse of Irene motionless at the bottom of the grand staircase, a sight Dimple hadn’t been able to get out of her mind.
The rest made do with what they had: rumors.
There was nothing people wouldn’t give to be a part of the hive mind that operated Hollywood.
As soon as the next day, gossip sites were already posting articles about rumored overdoses, fights, and other raunchy misdeeds resulting in the police being called to the Singhs’ Beverly Hills mansion.
The party had been the number one trending topic since it ended.
Dimple thought Irene would’ve rather enjoyed that, were she there to see it.
Irene’s normally overactive social media presence, on the other hand, had shifted to an eerie silence. Half of the world was convinced she was hospitalized, the other half oscillated back and forth between kidnapped and jailed. Death, it seemed, was not at all within the realm of possibility.
But this was a good thing. It gave Dimple the time to get her story straight.
The police had been almost comically out of their depth when they arrived at a crime scene brimming with hundreds of inebriated low-level celebrities.
They’d spent a good few hours collecting the contact information of everyone present before sending them home with a stern warning to keep quiet.
And now, over forty-eight hours after the party, Dimple had yet to sleep. She had yet to do much of anything other than sit on her couch, wrapped tightly in a blanket as she went over the events of Friday night. Getting a lawyer would only look suspicious. Not to mention expensive.
No, it would be detrimental to act rashly. Instead, she worked her brain until she herself could hardly remember which aspects of her cover were reality and which weren’t.
Dimple Kapoor had been with the rest of the crowd for the entirety of the function. Like the others, she hadn’t caught a glimpse of Irene Singh all night. And she’d been drinking—which was why her memory wasn’t the clearest.
Becoming someone else was Dimple’s specialty, something she’d always savored, like slipping into her favorite coat.
Eight years ago, she’d been sent home early from school to find that her childhood home had burned to the ground.
Part of her had been sad to miss it. Fire was a fleeting beauty, and Dimple only had the chance to bear witness to the ash that was its calling card.
It shouldn’t have shocked her, but nothing she’d done to put an end to the abuse had ever worked before.
Her aunt, who’d never stopped grieving the sister she lost due to childbirth, could never love the child that had taken her from the world.
Her uncle, who’d never wanted kids in the first place and resented Dimple’s father’s ability to walk out with such ease, found solace in inebriation.
Both had burned. For how intently Dimple had studied the silent film actors on her mother’s old VHS tapes, it hadn’t been difficult to play up her innocence to anyone who’d asked.
People always seemed untouchable until they died.
Years after the fire and sometimes even now, Dimple would hold her breath and listen for their footsteps at night.
Just in case it hadn’t worked after all.
She’d flick her lighter to life, comforted by the knowledge that the flame could consume anything, even her.
It wasn’t until she remembered that today was Monday and that she had work to do that Dimple finally dragged herself from the couch and got dressed for the day.
She’d spent nearly thirty minutes staring at the wall, debating whether she should give her assistant another day off or fire her altogether.
On one hand, she could barely afford hiring Priyal in the first place.
Her manager had insisted on it given Dimple’s aversion to social media, but now that Julie was likely to drop her anyway, it would be prudent to save the money instead.
Barely three months of employing the girl and it was already eating into Dimple’s meager savings.
She ended up giving her assistant the rest of the week off.
The bell rang and Dimple frowned. Perhaps Priyal had already been on the way. Dimple cleared her throat, testing her voice, before swinging her apartment door open.
She stopped short when she realized she didn’t recognize the two men standing on her welcome mat: one olive-toned and the other with skin a deep umber.
A glance back at the clock reminded her that it was a bit too early for Priyal’s shift; she was always late regardless.
Part of Dimple was relieved—she still didn’t know how best to deal with her assistant.
By now, several seconds had passed and neither of her visitors had offered up so much as a greeting. Dimple hadn’t ordered delivery or called for maintenance. And police officers didn’t wear suits nice enough that she could recognize them by brand.
The men, however, seemed content to stand there and stare at her, unblinking, as she gave them a cool once-over. Dimple glanced up at the security camera above her head. Their gazes followed hers, just as she’d hoped, but instead of leaving in a panic, they laughed.
“I’m Eli Taylor,” the shorter of the two said, though he still loomed considerably over Dimple. Which was saying a lot, as she was nearly six feet. “And this is Atlas Andino. We’re private investigators with Andino and Taylor Private Eye. Ever heard of us?”
When he smiled, his teeth shone brightly. Dimple’s heart dropped.
The other man—Atlas—handed Dimple a black, gold-embossed business card etched with both of their names.
She attempted to take it, but he held steadfastly on, a strange expression on his face.
It was only when Eli cleared his throat pointedly that Atlas finally let go. Now neither of them would look at her.
The business card didn’t lack in quality, made from an expensive card stock, and he did seem to have a thick stack of them in his wallet; all signs that they were telling the truth.
Dimple pretended to read over it as she continued to study the investigators in her periphery.
They seemed comfortable standing next to each other, complementary even.
Atlas’s scowl, Eli’s grin. One green-eyed and the other dark brown.
Her sweaty hand slipped on the doorknob, drawing Eli’s scrutiny.
His pleasant expression didn’t falter, but it was clear that he was paying closer attention now.
Could he tell, somehow? She couldn’t help but worry that a drop of Irene’s blood might’ve made its way onto her skin. Would it be incriminating to check?
“Apologies, but do you carry identification?” Dimple asked.
The men exchanged vaguely surprised looks, but Dimple figured it wasn’t too out of character for a woman living on her own.
“I’m guessing you haven’t heard of us, then,” Eli said.
She’d been half hoping the request alone would send them on their way but, albeit hesitantly, the two of them produced a pair of California driver’s licenses.
Dimple didn’t have one of her own, so she couldn’t speak for authenticity, but all the information seemed to match. It was the best she could hope for.
“I’m sure you’re a very busy woman, but I promise this won’t take up too much of your time. Can we come in?” Eli asked, tucking his wallet away and taking a step forward.
Dimple took half a second to collect herself.
She reminded herself that she’d been mentally preparing for this since the party ended.
Just because she’d been expecting the police rather than private investigators didn’t mean there was any reason to panic.
This was better, in some ways. These men had no authority over the law.
They couldn’t arrest her, which meant there was no concrete evidence against Dimple. Not yet, at least.
“You may,” she said with shakiness that she didn’t have to fake. She opened the door wider, an invitation. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”
“No—”
“I’ll have a tea—”
Atlas and Eli spoke at the same time, neither seeming particularly moved by her show of hospitality. Dimple acquiesced, making her way into the kitchen, and trying not to mind the way the two immediately began sleuthing around her apartment.
“Thanks.” Eli accepted the mug, exhaustion evident in his tone. “We have so many of these interviews, I hardly have the time to breathe between them.”
So she wasn’t the only suspect. Unless it was a bluff to lure Dimple into a false sense of security.
Even though she’d given them plenty of time to get settled before she sat down in an armchair, the men took their time getting comfortable, organizing their folders and fluffing the couch cushions.
Where her apartment was colorful and mismatched, the men were twin voids of blandness attempting ineffectively to blend in.
Dimple wasn’t a fool; she could recognize a tactic when she saw one.
They were waiting for her to speak first, to willingly give up information on her own.
More than that, they were destroying her carefully curated pillow placement.
Atlas’s gelled brown hair didn’t move an inch—that was more unnerving than anything else.
Every bone in Dimple’s body was hardwired to rise to the challenge, to refuse to give in, but she couldn’t afford to do that now.
Not when she actually had something to hide.
“Is this about Irene’s party?” she managed to grit her teeth and ask when the silence reached its most unnerving peak.