Chapter Eighteen #2
Dimple’s hands, which had been busy smoothing an invisible wrinkle in her dress, froze.
It was the last thing she’d expected to hear.
Just moments ago, she’d been trying to think of ways to infiltrate Andino and Taylor Private Eye.
She’d even considered breaking and entering.
But to be invited? It sounded too good to be true.
And perhaps it was. Perhaps this was Saffi’s attempt at entrapping her.
After all, an innocent actress like Dimple Kapoor would have no desire to be involved in a murder investigation, especially given what had just happened to her.
In all her amusement, she’d almost forgotten Saffi was just as much a performer as she was.
“I doubt I’d be of any help to you,” Dimple replied carefully. “Besides, wouldn’t that only provoke whoever it was that targeted me?”
“You don’t seem that worried.”
“Pardon?”
“You haven’t hired any security,” Saffi noted, gesturing around them. “And you were practically herding your assistant out of here. Most people in your shoes would consider turning themselves in for witness protection.”
It was, infuriatingly, a good point.
“I can’t afford security—”
“I know that’s not true,” Saffi cut in.
“It is,” Dimple said, “a child’s notion to assume that all actors are millionaires.”
“Can we drop the pretenses for a minute?” Saffi asked, irritated.
“I wasn’t aware that we were using any.”
Saffi huffed, her breath displacing a strand of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. “Fine. Help me with the case and I’ll make sure to protect you from the invisible boogeyman you invented.” She waved her hand flippantly.
She had a perpetual air of uninterest about her. Dimple could see it for what it was—rudeness. But the show woman in her saw it as a challenge. Dimple pretended to mull it over as though she hadn’t already made up her mind before the conversation had begun.
“I’m not sure I feel comfortable acting as bait for you,” she said eventually.
Saffi scoffed. If she was surprised that Dimple had caught on to her intentions so quickly, she didn’t show it. “Bait implies there’s something for you to catch.”
Neither of them were willing to give in. What was the old saying again—unstoppable force, immovable object? Their collision was inevitable, the only question was how cataclysmic the aftermath would be.
“If you’re so certain I’m a killer, then why are you here alone with me?”
“I never said I was afraid of you.”
“Why not?” Dimple pressed.
Saffi raised her brows. “What, are you disappointed?”
“If I were a killer, I’d at least want to be a talented one.”
“You can’t kill me, Kapoor,” Saffi said. “There are only two ways this ends: Either you turn yourself in now or I’ll do it for you later.”
As if it would be that easy. “If you were to kill somebody, all it would take for you to turn yourself in is someone asking you kindly?”
Saffi grinned. “Depends on how kind they were.”
“You could stand to put in a bit more effort, in that case.”
“I guess I wouldn’t know,” Saffi said. “If I killed someone, I wouldn’t be careless enough to be a suspect in the first place.”
Dimple couldn’t help it, she laughed. “You are the last person who should ever be a private investigator.”
“And yet…”
Every hair stood on end, the moment before a lightning strike. And then it was gone. Saffi was turning away, straightening her suit jacket. It was impossible to tell who’d won.
Just as Dimple began wondering if they were truly going to leave things like this, Saffi paused in the entryway. “Last chance,” she said. Her arm was braced against the door, holding it open. It made her appear taller, despite them being the same height.
This was a bluff. Dimple knew Saffi needed her just as much as she needed Saffi. Their stalemate would have to come to an end one way or another. She glanced down at her phone and considered canceling her appointment.
“Ask me again later,” Dimple said pleasantly.
It was worth it for the irritated look Saffi shot her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you in the middle of something, your highness?”
“A meeting with my manager.” Dimple held up her brace. “Not much work I can accomplish while I have this on.”
Dimple used to act in community plays for free when she first moved to LA, and she’d met her manager, Julie, after one of those shows.
It was apparently her charm and relentless effort that attracted Julie, who’d always claimed that Dimple treated life itself as a performance.
It wasn’t until recently that Dimple began to understand what she’d meant.
They were long overdue for a meeting to discuss the future of Dimple’s career. She was also supposed to pick up a couple of scripts to start working on for upcoming auditions.
Saffi’s brows furrowed. She did that when she was thinking, Dimple realized. “Surely you’re not strapped for cash with the feature film you just shot.”
“The starving artist is a trope for good reason.”
“Oh yeah, I could tell by the squalor you live in,” Saffi deadpanned. “What else ails you? Was the red carpet the wrong shade for your complexion?”
Dimple didn’t know why she felt such an intrinsic urge to defend herself, but the words burned deeply in her chest as she forced them down.
The issue with invisible scars was that nobody ever noticed them.
But once you tasted true, carnal hunger, it burned itself into your mind for an eternity.
Dimple couldn’t keep a stocked pantry for fear of bingeing it all to the point of sickness.
When she first moved to LA, most of her meals had been expired overstock from the café next to her old apartment; she’d since had the pleasure of eating at a Michelin star restaurant downtown.
One of those had been the best food she’d ever tasted in her life.
She’d had a full scholarship to a reputable university, and still she chose to drop out and leave it all behind.
Dimple could still remember the day she realized watching movies in her spare time would only worsen her fear of what she knew then to be inevitable: a meaningless, forgettable existence.
Just like that of her aunt and uncle. It was an insult to her mother, who’d died so Dimple could live.
That day, standing atop the grassy hill on campus, a few film students had set up a tripod to capture the sunset.
Dimple had never felt a stronger compulsion to do something than she did to walk past that camera.
To leave some record of her having been here.
There was no academic prestige, no desk job, no amount of money in the world that would make her feel as real as when a camera was pointed at her.
Dimple laughed, a manufactured thing. “I’m not quite what you think I am. But perhaps one day I’ll live up to your expectations.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
A flash of white as Saffi bared her teeth in a grin. “That’s only if you’re not behind bars before then.”
And the door slammed shut behind her.