Chapter Sixteen
So this was her. Saffi Mirai Iyer, private investigator.
A predator instinct lurked underneath coal black eyes.
It was Dimple who would have to be on the defensive.
Otherwise, Saffi would eat her alive. She had the kind of confidence, posture relaxed and chin held high, that indicated years of experience.
Dimple wondered if it was an act—overcompensation.
Look at me, she wanted to say. Do you realize now who it is that you’re dealing with? It was difficult to read Saffi’s expression, but Dimple liked to imagine she saw a touch of awe.
Despite being the one who’d orchestrated this meeting, she felt hauntingly vulnerable lying atop the hospital bed.
Her mind seemed disconnected from her body and sudden movement left her nauseous and dizzy.
That coupled with the dull ache in her wrist served as a reminder of her complete and utter powerlessness.
The heart-rate monitor at her bedside beat a steady rhythm, reminding her to count her breaths.
Dimple had always been terrified of heights, but they had at one point ruled her life so intrinsically, she would have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, up a flight of stairs.
Probably a result of one punishment too many.
There were only so many times she could be brought to the edge of a balcony and threatened before she began avoiding them altogether.
It was a paradox, a positive feedback loop.
Her phobia resulted in the very punishment that gave her the fear in the first place.
That was why, when she finally realized that she had no choice in the matter, Dimple had learned to adapt.
She pushed the fear so far back into the recesses of her mind, it only leaked out in her weakest of moments.
Unsurprisingly, that same terror had reemerged when she stood on the balcony of some actor’s mansion two days ago.
The ever-encompassing darkness of the polluted, starless sky threatened to consume her whole as the blaring music of the party inside set her nerves on edge.
It reminded her of clumsy hands threatening to push.
Of the one time they’d actually gone through with the threat.
It was only when she’d smashed the vase against her own head hard enough for blood to splatter that she could stomach jumping. The calculations she’d done the night before told her everything she needed to know. She would survive. The injuries would be minimal.
But that was, of course, only a given if optimal conditions were met.
With the disorientation of her head injury, Dimple couldn’t stop herself from instinctively tensing her muscles and using her hand to break her fall.
As a result, the wrist of her dominant hand was now swollen and throbbing, every accidental movement like lightning shooting up her arm.
Eight weeks in the cast, they’d told her, and then physical therapy afterward.
It seemed Dimple was destined to collect a new nightmare every time she tried to stop her life from turning into one.
Each time, she found herself thinking they couldn’t possibly get worse.
Now when she closed her eyes, Dimple relived that same fall.
The pain in her imagination was so visceral, she found herself realizing that the actual impact had hurt far less in comparison.
At least no person in their right mind could think Dimple had done this on purpose. She could hardly believe it herself.
“Dimple Kapoor,” the private investigator had said, finally through inspecting the bright flowers—Dimple had fans now—decorating the hospital room. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”
It was a curious turn of phrase, one that Dimple was more than willing to make true.
She’d already decided how to play this, but something in the woman’s expression gave her pause.
Saffi Mirai Iyer appeared almost excited.
Had it been Atlas or Eli in the room, Dimple was sure they would’ve stumbled their way through a clichéd checklist of condolences first. This woman, however, seemed the type to stomp on eggshells rather than tiptoe.
“Do I know you?” Dimple asked, not bothering to hide her irritation. She could both see and feel her heartbeat pick up ever so slightly. Saffi seemed to notice as well, not bothering to hide her interest in the growing number.
“I get the feeling you know exactly who I am.” She said it challengingly, as though Dimple was supposed to know what she meant by that. When she remained tactfully quiet, it was Saffi who turned away. Somehow, it still felt like a loss.
“Saffi Mirai Iyer, private investigator.” She didn’t hold out a hand to shake nor did she offer a business card.
Dimple pretended to mull it over. “Do you work with Atlas and Eli?”
Saffi shrugged, neither in confirmation nor denial, but she seemed tense.
Dimple thought back to the countless articles that connected Saffi, Atlas, and Eli.
If one of their names were mentioned regarding an investigation, the other two were sure to follow.
That is, until Saffi had left the country and Atlas and Eli had started their own agency without her.
Curious. There was likely some history there.
“You mentioned to the police that you were pushed by someone, but that you didn’t get a good look at them?” Saffi asked, and Dimple nodded in agreement, the movement making her wince. This time when her heart rate shot up, it was due to pain.
“Did you catch them?” Dimple asked.
“Not yet,” Saffi said. “But it’s only a matter of time. Your attacker very helpfully decided to leave a little message for us on the balcony.”
“A message,” Dimple echoed, trying to keep her tone wary, yet bland. “Yes, I believe I recall the police mentioning that.”
It was something Dimple had thought up last minute when she realized she needed the investigators to quickly link her fall to Irene’s and Isaac’s deaths.
The workings of real-life murder investigations were a mystery to her, however.
Eight years ago, she hadn’t the foresight to pay attention, so all that she knew now was from research.
Somehow, she doubted that Insomnia’s take on it was accurate, considering Dimple and Chris’s characters hadn’t been caught.
“Ridiculous, I know,” Saffi said, mischievous. “But it connects your attack to Irene Singh’s murder.”
“Murder? I was under the impression that Irene’s passing was an accident,” Dimple said.
“Were you?” Saffi hummed. “Well, according to the note, it wasn’t.” She huffed a laugh. “Funny. It’s the kind of thing you’d expect to see in the movies, not real life.”
Dimple’s blood ran cold. She could’ve been imagining it, but she had a feeling this woman knew more than she was letting on.
But Dimple couldn’t afford to panic. She forced herself to count her breaths, lungs straining with effort.
The number on the heart monitor next to her bed steadily began to decline.
“I suppose,” she replied, slightly breathless. “But I’d rather it stay on-screen.”
“It’s the screen itself that seems to bring out the worst in people.”
What could Saffi possibly intend by that other than to provoke?
“You’ll catch whoever it is, won’t you?” Dimple Kapoor asked earnestly. Innocence was an art form she’d had a lot of practice perfecting.
“Of course I will,” Saffi replied, seemingly more interested in the vibrant roses by the bedside.
The promise did the opposite of reassure her. Dimple fought the urge to shiver—only partially because the movement would make her sick. “Do you have any leads?”
Saffi moved closer to Dimple’s bed, looking down at her from above.
Her head eclipsed the bright light at the top of the room, shrouding her face in darkness.
God, she really was so tall. She leaned closer, shirt collar dipping to expose neck and collarbone.
It was unsettlingly reckless, this display of vulnerability.
Another provocation. Saffi didn’t register Dimple as a threat and wanted to make that fact known.
Dimple had the brief, feral urge to sink her teeth into the unmarred flesh as a reminder of the danger she possessed.
But this was a challenge that she could not meet head-on, not without upending everything she’d done to get here.
“Give it up,” Saffi said. “This innocent act might’ve worked on the pigs, but it won’t work on me.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in.
Panic followed next, anchoring itself in Dimple’s rapidly thudding heart.
All her hard work had been for nothing, the heart monitor’s beeping turning shrill.
She’d been sweating profusely for hours now thanks to the pain and the bright lights and the needles pumping nutrients into her veins, but never as much as she was right now.
The walls felt like they were closing in, the lights glowing brighter until they supernova’d.
Dimple couldn’t stomach the thought that she’d thrown herself off a balcony for nothing.
Eighty-hour workweeks, earning pennies on set throughout the day and at temp jobs throughout the night, all worthless because one woman stood in her path.
What would happen, truly, if she reached up and strangled Saffi right here and now?
Dimple had only one good hand, but she could probably catch her by surprise.
The world was a dancing mosaic of color. It took her a second to recognize that it was the bouquets her fans had sent her. Just moments ago, Priyal had been reading each of the kind messages out loud while Dimple had let the words sink in.
She had no choice. She would have to kill Saffi just like she did Isaac and Irene.
She had to preemptively strike before the threads of her deception unraveled.
The thought was quickly tempered by the fact that she would never get away with it.
Forget killing her in the middle of a hospital—even if Dimple threw Saffi down a flight of stairs at some remote location, it wouldn’t end well.
Because who else had Saffi told about her suspicions?
Who were the other suspects in this investigation?
If she died immediately after confronting Dimple, there would be no question regarding Dimple’s hand in the matter.
She was completely at this woman’s mercy.
A hand clamped itself over Dimple’s mouth and she was suddenly made aware of her own erratic breathing. The pounding in her skull. The ache in her wrist.
Saffi’s shadowed face gradually phased back into view. “Relax,” she hissed. “Do you want the nurses barging in here with tranquilizers?”
Dimple could see her own reflection, pale and helpless, in Saffi’s irises. When she finally let go of Dimple’s mouth, Dimple breathed in so fast that her lungs threatened to explode. She didn’t dare look over at the heart-rate monitor.
It would be okay. This was fine. Any reasonable person would panic when met with such a direct confrontation. Even Innocent Dimple Kapoor—who’d just survived a very traumatic attempt on her life. She could still salvage this.
“What is wrong with you?” Dimple choked out, horrified. Though the artist in her couldn’t help being impressed by Saffi’s delivery, the buildup to the big reveal.
Saffi blinked innocently. “What?”
“Are you suggesting I asked for this?” Dimple held up her bandaged wrist.
“I’m suggesting that there was no one for you to ask in the first place.”
She knew. If there was any question before, it was clear now.
This woman was here to fix Atlas and Eli’s mistakes, and she wouldn’t be making quite as many of her own. It made sense now why Saffi had left them and America behind. If only she’d stayed gone.
Still, she couldn’t be all that good of an investigator if she was still at the beck and call of men so far her inferiors.
Dimple’s uninjured hand clenched the scratchy fabric of her blanket. “You’ll have to understand, given where we are right now, why a statement like that might anger me.”
Saffi reached out, pinching a blood-red rose petal between her fingertips and plucking it free from the stem. “And you’ll have to understand that I don’t give a shit. I didn’t get into this line of work to make people happy.”
“Why did you, then?”
“I love a good puzzle,” Saffi replied flippantly.
“Is that what I am to you?”
“You’re nothing to me.”
But there was something else. Something in the glint of her eyes. As though Dimple was a shiny new toy for her to play with. It was infuriating.
“If you think I’m a killer, then why not arrest me?” Dimple challenged, jaw clenched.
Saffi grinned, clearly delighted. “I never said you were a killer, but if the shoe fits…”
“This feels extremely unethical,” Dimple muttered, not even having to fake the queasiness in her tone. Her head was floating somewhere above her body.
“Not illegal, though,” Saffi said. “Can’t say the same for your offenses.”
“Do you have any intention of taking my statement at all?”
“That’s what the police are for.” Something must’ve shown on Dimple’s face because Saffi adopted an insufferable tone. “Don’t give me that look. They probably ate up every word you said. It’s only fair. I’m sure that’s how you imagined this encounter going.” She gestured between the two of them.
“What is this, good cop, bad cop?”
Saffi seemed to consider it for a moment. “If the police were any good at their jobs, then maybe.”
Dimple had never met anyone so antagonistic. As though reading her mind, Saffi flicked the rose petal at Dimple. It floated down in a slow arc, landing softly on her cheek.
“I should let you rest before you have another heart attack,” she said. “We’ll catch up soon, okay? This was almost fun. Don’t go doing something stupid and ruin it.”
With that, she turned and left the same way she’d entered.
And despite how much Dimple desired the contrary, she knew this would not be the last time they met.
She sagged against her pillow, shoulders sore, and absently lifted the petal from her cheek.
Soft, velvety. She crushed it within her fist. Next time, she would be much better prepared.