Chapter Seven
There was a thud as Dimple’s bag fell to the pristine, polished hardwood, but she barely registered the noise through the ringing in her ears.
A phone number with a California area code was listed below the message in the same terrible penmanship.
She pressed her fingers harshly into the note, sending a spiderweb of crinkles throughout.
Dimple attempted to think rationally through the panic, through the metallic tang of blood in her mouth where she’d bitten her cheek.
She leaned against the cool granite countertop, blinking rapidly into the yellow light.
Her skin crawled at the thought that someone had so easily invaded her space.
Had they kicked their feet up on her couch?
Drank from her sink? The paper displayed on the front of the trailer, the one printed with her name, was fragile, all things considered.
A harsh gust of wind could blow it away.
The granite countertop she leaned against felt seconds away from cracking under her weight, the sticky residue left behind on the mirror taunting her.
None of this was permanent and none of it was really hers.
And yet the granite remained unmoving beneath her.
A damp napkin was all it took to wipe away the residue on the mirror.
Dimple left the water running for a moment, watching it swirl down the drain as though washing away the impurities the intruder had left behind.
The sign on the front of the trailer could rip to shreds, it didn’t change the fact that for the duration of the shoot, this space belonged to Dimple. It was her right.
She’d just learned that the Singhs were in the process of suing Salomé for their daughter’s death.
Freedom from this nightmare was within sight—within grasp.
Dimple’s entire life up until now had been endured with survival in mind.
Finally, she was beginning to live—truly live.
The person who’d left this note was the only one capable of taking this from her.
They would have to claw it from her cold, dead hands.
Whoever this was, they wanted something. The phone call, should she choose to make it, would end in a list of demands. And an actress only had two things that people desired—money and fame.
It was possible they were bluffing about this so-called proof, but regardless, they knew what Dimple had done. That was dangerous enough on its own. Her knees gave out and she collapsed painfully to the ground next to her bag.
This was the worst kind of person—someone who knew an opportunity when they saw one and wasn’t afraid of taking it.
Someone like Dimple. If they were smart, they would hold on to whatever evidence they had even if she complied with all of their demands.
And if they were bluffing, they would continue to do so until they’d extorted everything they possibly could from her.
Dimple listened to the hum of the air conditioner, counting down from ten and then thirty and then fifty. Just like she had following Irene’s fall, she painstakingly pieced herself back together. It wouldn’t do her any good if she looked as frantic as she felt.
She was able to catch the last few crew members before they left, but they were of no help. No one had noticed any strange visitors.
As she stepped outside again, the night breeze cooled Dimple’s sweat-slicked skin, inducing a shiver. In a sense, she was relieved. The way things were going so smoothly since Irene’s party had unnerved her. At least now it didn’t feel too good to be true.
This was nothing more than another decision to make.
Dimple followed the sidewalk to the back of the studio building, where she knew a phone booth sat. She remembered it because someone had spray-painted smile onto one side and it felt too ironic to be real. Up close, the chipped paint and cracked glass grounded it firmly in reality.
She gave the handle a curious tug, and the door swung wide open with only a modicum of effort.
A cloud of dust exploded from within, and Dimple waited patiently for it to disperse before stepping inside.
The glass was so dirty it was translucent, the threads of an abandoned cobweb swaying in one corner.
Thankfully, the dial tone that graced her ears when she lifted the phone indicated that it was still in operation.
Dimple punched in the number from the note and waited with bated breath as the line rang once, twice, thrice. She looked around again to make sure no one was watching. Her blackmailer answered after the fourth ring.
“Hello?” They had the audacity to sound irritated.
“Hello,” Dimple replied. The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t pinpoint where she’d heard it.
“Who is this? I’m not interested in buying any—”
“Who do you think?” Dimple asked with a slight edge.
A pause. Then, “Oh. Dimple Kapoor.” In a tone of disbelief, as though they hadn’t been expecting her to call. Undeniably amateur, but she couldn’t hang up now. The fact that she’d responded to the threat was an admission of guilt in and of itself.
“How impolite of you not to introduce yourself,” Dimple commented.
“I’m just a waiter,” he said. “You probably don’t remember me, none of you do, but that’s fine. I remember you. Next time you push someone down the stairs, better make sure no one is watching.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to,” she replied smoothly.
“Really?” he asked, sounding amused. “Then why did you call?”
Dimple had no response for that, but she could practically hear him laughing at her. “What can I do for you?” she asked, her tone sickly sweet.
“I’ll be reasonable,” he said. “One hundred grand. If you can get me that much, I’ll delete the video and you’ll never hear from me again.”
The video. It was worse than she’d thought.
“Are you out of your mind?” Dimple hissed. “Who has that kind of money just lying around?”
“I’m not an idiot,” he said. “I know how much they’re paying you. It should be no problem.”
“And how would you propose I get such a large sum of money to you without raising several questions?”
“Leave that to me,” he said. “I’ll forward you the details and you handle the rest.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I won’t just send the evidence to the police, I’ll post it online too. Good luck beating those allegations.”
Dimple felt sick to her stomach. How would people react?
Kind words turned cruel—or worse, apathetic.
She’d never book a role again. Hell, she’d never see the light of day again, locked up in some criminal penitentiary.
Now that she’d had a taste of fame, sweet on the tip of her tongue, the bitterness of obscurity was no longer palatable.
“I need time,” Dimple said.
“You have until tomorrow.” And the line went dead.